


and this mist, it makes it hard to see

by vesperthine



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Infidelity, Horses, Iceland, Internal Conflict, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-13 23:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine
Summary: In a way, it was escapism. In others, not so much. But Even has only been there for three months when Isak shows up. And it makes a mess out ofeverything, while other things settle into place.





	1. the fence at the edge of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [i dimma är det svårt att se klart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827030) by [vesperthine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine). 



> and so, finally, here's the translation of my big bang fic, and it is the combination of a few things that i really love -- SKAM, slow burn and Icelandic horses. bit of an odd mix, but i hope you like it!
> 
> the Swedish original was beta-read by the lovely, [tristealven](http://tristealven.tumblr.com) and [irazor](http://irazor.tumblr.com). they made me put this fic in the world. and this translation couldn't have been done without the help of, at first, [kit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitpurrson) and [mynameisnotthepoint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotthepoint). thank you both for your hard work! ♡ 
> 
> the art was done by [anchoram](https://www.instagram.com/anchoram/), who drew not only one but two(!) pieces for this work. go give her some love!
> 
> a short glossary of icelandic horse-related terms can be found in the end notes. and with that, please enjoy! ♡

 

The water flows down the drain clear, without the slightest tint of red.

Even heaves a sigh of relief and turns off the tap. The tack room has a heater, but his fingers are still white and stiff after several minutes under cold water. Gusts of wind howl through the vents and rattle the window panes. He reaches for a cloth to wipe the sides of the snaffle bit one last time.

Ósk had nearly given Even a heart attack when he noticed that the snaffle bit was covered with a coat of blood after today’s trip. Luckily, the damage had been caused by her sharp new teeth, which was normal. Jón has floated them now, but the dried blood on the rings needed several rounds of soap and water to get clean.

He puts the bridle on the wall among the others. He grabs his anorak and looks back one last time to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything before he turns off the light, then leaves the heat behind and heads for the cold stable.

In the stable, there is no space heater and the insulation is poor. The fluorescent lights buzz, and little sounds fill the room. The horses are moving about in their stalls, breathing or slowly chewing on the hay from the evening feed. Even’s breath turns into little clouds in the cold air as he makes one last turn through the stable to make sure that every horse is in its right place and none of them have escaped.

Even puts his hands in his pockets as he checks on Fleyta; the big, unmistakable blue dun mare.

She looks up from the hay, staring him down with one dark eye before she goes back to eating. Even shakes his head at her. He takes one big step over Ella, the stable cat, who's sleeping in the middle of the aisle, and starts to head towards the exit; he’s just about to call out that everything is ready for the night when he realises that Spes isn’t in her place.

With a sigh, Even turns back down the aisle. He walks carefully between the horses feeding on the hay on the floor, and then out through the side door leading into the riding stables. Inside, the walls are even thinner, and they almost shake every time a gust blowing from the mountains strikes them a certain way.

And yet, Isak is still at work.

Spes, the nervous brown mare, walks in a small circle around Isak. Last time Even watched them, Spes was stepping closer to the outer edge of the circle; as far away from Isak as possible.

Jón once said that you couldn't teach yourself anything by only training the horses with clear potential. And that you should only start to handle those horses if you managed to train the others. It wasn't total nonsense, and it had fired Isak up in an instant. To Jón's delight, he’d declared he'd be mounting her on his own by the end of the week.

Clearly, those were not just empty words. Spes' head is lowered almost all the way down to the ground, her gait relaxed and steady. Isak has even been able to put down the whip. Now, he merely walks with small steps, angling his body in the right direction and stopping at regular intervals.

Every time he does, Spes does the same.

Even sticks his icy fingers under his armpits. Halfway hidden behind the entrance, he watches as Isak slowly but surely makes Spes come closer to the centre. Makes the distance less and less between them until she follows every step he takes. Does the same start and stops as Isak does. They go on for a few minutes: Isak first, with his back to her and Spes following, until she takes the final step towards him without any persuasion.

Several seconds pass.

A breath, a twitch of her ear. Then, she presses her forehead against Isak's shoulder. Isak slowly turns around, and his smile is so big that Even can see it from where he is standing. Isak raises his hand and scratches Spes behind her ears.

Somehow it feels too intimate just to stand around and watch.

Even clears his throat.

It really shows how much Isak has managed to do when Spes doesn't even twitch, while Isak jumps. Even can't help but smile as he goes up to the edge of the corral; he throws his arms over the side and smiles.

“Well done.”

Isak's smile fades, but he continues to pet Spes' forehead. "Thanks."

“Can I come in?”

A nod from Isak and Even heaves himself over the fence. A cloud of sawdust flies up around his shoes when he drops down on the other side.This time, Spes doesn't seem to care either. She's too busy enjoying the touch of Isak's careful hands—her eyes closed and nostrils flaring as Isak scratches her, dragging his dry, slightly chapped hands through her thick, mostly grown out winter coat.

“She's so much calmer.”

Isak shrugs and sniffs, then wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, finally. I just hope she'll stay calmer from now on.” Moving along Spes' side, his hand traces her back, index and middle finger running down on each side of her spine. “Jón said they're thinking of selling her soon. So it'd be good if she's a bit less nervous by then.”

“You've done a good job with her.” When Even puts his hand on the point of her shoulder, she doesn't even react: another proof of Isak's work. But at the same time, Even know Spes’ slow progress under Isak’s hand doesn’t play into his sullen reaction. It isn’t a part of the problem.

At that, Isak does a sort of a shrug-nod blend and smiles at the ground. He scratches his mare a little on her rump; her ears angle to the sides as she relaxes. “Yeah. I guess.”

Isak's nose is runny and red. As his ears would be, had he not put on his knitted, dark blue beanie. The cold is intrusive here, but at least Even got to clean bridles and tack in the relative warmth of a heated tack room. Isak has been working hard in the uninsulated riding stables without so much as a  scarf or a pair of mittens. And although the Icelandic sweater he got from Eídunn must've kept the worst of the chill at bay, it doesn't seem to have been enough.

His naked fingertips are white with cold.

Isak looks down at the floor. “I should probably try to mount her,” he says, stroking her back. “We've had weights and a saddle on, and I've laid across her back a few times. And she is so calm now.”

“Why don't you try it then?”

“Because Jón isn't here?”

“I am.”

“Seriously?” Isak's eyes are doubtful, but laughing all the same. “I trust you, but not that much, Even.”

“Just one lap. She's used to you now, and your balance is more than enough, even Jón says so. Chop chop!” Even places a hand on the point of Spes' shoulder again. “I mean it.”

Isak raises his the eyebrows but slowly steps around to Spes' other side. He comes close enough that Even feels the heat radiating from him, senses him breathing and makes out the clouds his breath form in the air, in the light of the foggy fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling.

“You'll give me a leg up, then? She's used to me halfway mounting, but she might buck anyway.”

Even nods. “Alright.”

He bends down to get a good grip just above Isak's knee. He holds himself steady, and feels the strength of the thigh under his palm when Isak pushes away and smoothly mounts her. For a short second when he's just resting on his hands, Spes goes stiff, but as soon as Isak gets his leg over and finds his balance, she relaxes again.

For a while after, they stay completely still. Let a few minutes pass and give Spes time to realise what’s going on around her. She’s young enough to still have some trouble with comprehending the rider's aids, but somehow, Isak manages to make her walk.

Long, relaxed steps, just like Even's own.

The storm outside causes the walls and the tin roof to rumble, and Spes' inherit instinct to flee can still kick in if she's spooked.

Even looks at him. “She performs the tölt just fine, right?”

“This one tölted before she walked.” Isak strokes his hand over her mane, his mouth soft and warm. “Is this you telling me I should try it?”

Even shrugs, and Isak's laugh clouds the air.

“Only if you catch me when I fly off.”

And when Isak pulls the right corner of his mouth up into a smirk and raises an eyebrow, a new sort of dizziness washes over Even in a way that he knows it shouldn't.

Not here, and not now.

But it's too late for that.

 

* * *

 

It’s only been a few weeks since Jón declared that Even would be getting some company in the living quarters of the stables again.

All summer he had lived there with Ninni. But after Rettír, in early September, she had returned to Denmark, so he'd had the quarters to himself for almost a whole month. And there was something to be said about falling asleep like that; to fall asleep without Sonja's body beside him, or without sensing someone else's presence inside the walls. It had been scary at first, but then a calm had washed over him as he lay down at night and fell asleep to the violent cacophony of another autumn storm.

He had just entered the tack room after a training trip with Fleyta up on the road when Jón stumbled in after him. He nodded, poured some coffee into the lid of his thermos, and then sent Even an inscrutable look over the edge of said lid.

“So, Even. Are you enjoying yourself here? Starting to go stir crazy yet?”

In a way, it was nice that Jón knew and did not care about it. People's weaknesses were something he loved to tease and take digs at. Sometimes it stung, but it was also relieving.

Even breathed out a laugh and shrugged.

“No. I like it. It's peaceful here.”

“It is, isn't it?” Jón scratched his beard and looked out through the window, across paddocks and the fog. “So, you'd rather not let another kid from Oslo join you?”

Stomach tied into knots, Even tried his best to keep it from showing on his face; to not give in to the cold feeling of losing control and let it slip out through the corners of his mouth. Why Oslo, of all places?

“It's fine. Do you know where they keep their horse? Which stables, I mean?”

Jón shook his head. “No, I have no idea. Sveinn said Oslo, that's all I know.”

“Okay.”

“It's another city kid—Sveinn's sister's grandson or something else neither here nor there. He was going to work over at Sveinn's, but Sveinn has now discovered that he has too little to do, apparently.”

His lungs inflated again. It was true that it was lonely at times, being the only guy, but he didn't know any other guy hanging out in the same stables he did. “Too little to do? Is it because he's hasn't got any new horses to break in this season?”

“Yeah,” John said. “We'll place him with you, in the quarters. We do have ten horses who either have to work off all that lard they got this summer, or need to be broken in, so it’ll be good to have some extra people around. He’s going to be leaving when you are so in a way, it's perfect.”Jón downed the rest of the coffee and stretched his arms over his head with a sigh. “By Christmas time, it'll be just me and Eídunn again.”

“You can kick me out earlier if you want.”

“Don’t weasel out on me now, Even. You're just a little too good to let go of right now.”

They washed up after breakfast and then Jón disappeared into the riding stables again, ordering Even to collect more forage from the outhouse. Even stayed put on the couch for a while before he picked up one of the hay nets so he could carry more forage bags at a time.

As he came around the corner and out on the courtyard in front of the stables, something caught his attention. Sveinn, the horse farm owner ten kilometres further down the road, was leaning against his blue pick-up and talking to someone—

Someone who laughed.

Even stopped. Not entirely, but everything slowed down for a few seconds—brain, heart and his feet’s connection to the ground. It had not been momentous, but it had been so long since he'd had such a raw, physical reaction to a laugh.

The guy next to Sveinn tipped his head back, hand around his own throat as he laughed. It had been a rainy day, and the fog had not yet retreated.

Nevertheless, Even could not have seen him more clearly.

_Pretty._

In that way that changes your worldview for a while.

“—and look, there he is. Even!”

The sudden call had made him connect his feet to his brain again. Had made him pull his scarf over his chin to hide the fact that he did not care that the horses saw his embarrassing attempt at a beard.

Sveinn beamed about him, teeth white through his thick, grey beard. “How are you? Lonely now that Ninni has gone?”

Even smiled back; Sveinn made it almost impossible not to. “No, not really. It's pretty nice to be by yourself,” he answered honestly, shaking Sveinn’s hand.

“Oh, that's a shame! You know, Isak's here to keep you company.”

“Yes, Jón just told me.” Even didn't even think before sticking out a hand to the guy, who now stood next to Sveinn with a reserved expression on his face. “Even.”

“Isak,” he said, and looked at Even, and that was where it had started, with those green eyes with something behind them that made his stomach drop in a way that he had not known since he first saw Sonja. He had to force himself to swallow.

Sveinn smiled again and patted Isak on the shoulder before opening the car door. “And don’t let Jón get to you. He’s a strange one: he's going to go hard at you, thinking it builds character or something. And remember to speak to your grandma once in a while too!”

Isak had nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”

“Good. Take care!”

And with that, Sveinn got into his car and drove up to the road, heading for his farm. The sound of the drizzle filled the silence between them while Isak seemed to think, his eyes stuck on the road and the shoreline running along its side.

It was a great opportunity to just take in the sight of him: blond, curly hair sticking out from under his beanie, a dark green gallon jacket that made it impossible to see his build.

Not that it mattered.

Even had Sonja.

He broke the silence, for both their sakes'. “Do you want the tour of the place?”

Isak jumped at his words. And maybe it was the wind or something else, but his cheeks were red when he turned around. “Sure.”

So Even brought him down to the paddocks, where the fog made it impossible to distinguish either horses or sheep and see where they were grazing down by the shore. Isak's face remained neutral, and they went back, quietly, to the stables.

“A question—you're from Oslo too, right?”

He couldn't stop himself—wondered why he hadn't seen Isak before, neither at competitions nor otherwise, because he would have remembered him—as they walked through the aisle where that day’s horses waited in their stalls.

Isak nodded. “Yeah. Can't you hear it?”

“Oh no, I can.” Even couldn’t help laughing. “Which stable do you ride at?”

His question had caused Isak to make some strange grimace before he shrugged his shoulders. “I mean. I haven't really stayed at any proper stable-stables, really.”

“No?”

One of the horses—a black mare that would later become Isak's favourite—had chose that moment to satisfy her curiosity. She put her black head on the edge of the half door and uttered a deep sigh. And Isak—and his entire face—softened as he gently held out his hand to let her greet him, get to know his scent, before he scratched her behind her ear.

Even put his hands in his pockets, warmth and cold marbling his insides. “So, what are you here for?”

“Work?” Isak said, smiling with one side of his mouth as he combed his fingers through the mare's mane. “Was supposed to stay with Sveinn, but he sent me over here. He had too little to do, apparently.”

“Jón told me. But it's just fun to know what sort of background people come from.” Even shrugged “If you've grown up on a horse farm, or just handled horses in your spare time while your mother cheers loudly from the sidelines.”

He had pointed to himself, coaxing another laugh from Isak, all suppressed and hoarse. Still, all too much like a shock; a sense of vertigo “No, nothing like that. Grandma lives in Drammen and keeps two—no, three now. I ride a lot with her. After school from time to time, when I wanted or just—needed to escape for a while.”

“You're not hanging around any stables around Oslo, then?”

“No. Didn't feel like it was my kind of place, really,” Isak said with a snort, wiping his hand on his thigh. He was wearing a pair of clunky, laced-up riding boots—probably newly purchased at the airport—but otherwise, did not look the part, dressed in a grey hoodie and short raincoat. "A little too—I don't know. Too many girls. "

He shrugged, but Even knew what he meant. Most of the girls in his riding group were used to his company, but still, he never managed to fully relax. Especially not after the rumours began to spread about what he'd done last spring. So, it felt good that Isak had no idea. That he didn't keep in the small circle of people in Oslo and its surroundings interested in Icelandic horses.

That Isak most certainly had no idea who Even was.

Or Sonja, for that matter.

“So you came here for a change of scenery.”

“Yes, something like that.”

Isak accompanied him to the house to get the feed and Even was pleasantly surprised when Isak helped out without even questioning it. With two of them it took half the time, and Even showed Isak how to walk around the stable to get to the door of the seasonal workers’ living quarters.

“They needed new paddocks; that's why you have to make this detour.”

“Doesn't take much longer,” Isak had said and dumped his 60-litre backpack on the hall floor with a thud. “Wasn't that bad.”

“You say that now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after three months, it gets annoying. Especially if you just have to go down to Jón and Eídunn and fetch breakfast,” Even had said, and toed off his paddock boots and brushed off the worst from his jodhpurs.

“Fair enough.”

Isak took a small tour of the common room—dragging his fingers over the knobs on the old radio and the minuscule screen of television balancing on the windowsill—before turning to Even again. “Where am I going to sleep?”

He hadn't planned on it, but when the chance presented itself so neatly, Even couldn't but take the chance to escape the lumpy mattress on the bottom floor bed. The room was warmer, which was a disadvantage in summer, but with winter around the corner, it seemed like a reasonably fair exchange. “You know what. I think I'll move. You get the bed down here, and I'll take Ninni's upstairs.”

“And you didn’t change beds before because?” Isak said slowly, clearly suspicious.

Even winked at him as he gathered his belongings. “See it as a privilege because of my status as a long-term employee,” he said. “Ninni stayed upstairs since she stayed here before me. It's just the way it is.”

And Isak had laughed, accepting it as fact.

 

* * *

 

The alarm goes off at half-past six.

It's October, but winter is already upon them. The winds make the waves beat against the black shore in the fjord, and it rains more frequently—it falls horizontally here—and the raw cold slips in through gaps in scarves and sleeves. Snow is not an unusual thing. It usually melts away during the day, but the cold still seeps up through the floorboards.

This makes it even harder to rise from a warm, toasty and pleasantly _warm_ bed.

Even turns onto his stomach, exiting an arm from under the covers and fumbling for his phone to turn off the alarm. The chill of the room bites at the bare skin of his arm, causing the hairs to stand up in defence. He quickly retreats to the warmth under the covers, the phone still in hand.

A new text from Mom, a promotional one about language courses abroad—and a message from Sonja.

He bites his chapped lower lip. Catches a piece of died, dry skin between his teeth and tugs at it with his teeth, accidentally pulling it clear off. It's a little too thick, because it stings like hell, and suddenly his whole mouth tastes of blood.

Even swears, and marks the text as read.

With his tongue against his destroyed lip, he tosses the duvet to the side and sprints across the icy floor. In front of the window there’s a chair that substitutes as his wardrobe, and Even pulls off the t-shirt he wore to sleep. Quickly slips a clean t-shirt and the Icelandic sweater over his head plus some woollen socks on his feet to shield himself from the insistent cold.

He keeps his pyjamas pants on, and then slowly heads down the stairs, with its creaking fourth step.

They built the extension sometime in the eighties, and it shows. The walls of the common room, serving as a combined kitchen and living room, are covered in pale grey, granular wallpaper. The striped sofa bed along one wall is wonderfully outdated, and the small television balancing on a tall stack of books on the window sill even has an antenna.

Even rubs the last traces of sleep from his eyes, goes to the counter by the window and pours himself a large glass of water. Takes two pills from the blister pack behind the coffee tin, swallows them, and hides them in the same place again; without the folding carton, they go unnoticed if you're not looking at them from the right angle.

He turns on the coffee maker.

While it's running, Even takes out spreads for the remaining pieces of rye bread. Eídunn had baked it when she was ill and restless last week, and Jón had given it to him, saying he was sick of it and that they still had three loaves left. The fridge is almost empty, but there’s still some left of the sweaty block of cheese, butter—and also the smoked horse meat, which, even after four months here, he'd rather not eat.

The coffee maker clicks. Even turns it off. Pours coffee into the chipped mustard yellow mug before looking out through the window again. In the short while since he woke up, the fog has lifted, has retreated steadily towards the mountains. No one can predict how it'll act throughout the day, but a retreat this early on usually indicates sunshine later on.

His mug of coffee is already half-empty when he hears sounds from the room opposite the kitchen. A few drawers move, something goes thump, and a quiet curse travels through the air before the silence returns. A few minutes later, Isak comes out. He has pulled the drawstring of his grey hoodie tight, and his eyelids are puffy.

He stifles a yawn behind the hand. "Morning", he murmurs and goes straight to the fridge. He seems confused for a while before he finds that what he is looking for is already laid out on the bench.

The gentle sunlight from outside slants in through the window. It falls over the lower half of Isak's face—the sun-bleached freckles like sprinkles on the bridge of his nose, sharp cheekbones, the dip in his chin, the cupid's bow on his soft upper lip—

Even swallows, and takes the pot to pour the rest of the coffee into the chipped mustard mug's twin. “Morning. Slept well?”

Isak pulls a face. The grimace rolls like a wave across his mouth, from right to left. Then he shrugs. Still, a small smile appears when Even hands him the mug.

“Yeah. It was alright.”

“You don't have to lie. That mattress is not fun in the slightest.” Even shrugs. “I slept there all summer while Ninni stayed upstairs, so believe me, I know.”

It makes Isak laugh, and it shouldn’t make Even feel as much as it does—as if a glowing drop of lava drops down and burns itself into his diaphragm—but to deny it will only hurt him more in the long run, that's for sure.

No matter how wrong it is, it keeps happening. Over and over again.

Isak smiles into his coffee and shakes his head. “Okay. Fine. Perhaps it's a little lumpy,” he says.

Even winks at him. "If you can't handle it, nothing’s stopping you from coming upstairs and sleeping with me."

Isak looks at him—one, two seconds pass—before he rolls his eyes and keeps his eyes trained on his feet. “Oh, fuck off, Even,” he says, but it there's a smile playing in the corners of his mouth.

They drink their coffee in silence.

 

* * *

 

Eístla pants heavily under him. Her breath turns into clouds in the clear air, and the gravel comes up in sprays around her hooves.

They’ve been at it for an hour now and Even is just as tired as she is. The fatigue isn't tangible. Not like the one you get after a day of cleaning out muck or herding the horses down from the mountains, but it's still there. Steadily seeping into his bones.

And she still hasn’t found the tölt.

Even takes a deep breath and asks her to halt. As soon as the reins give her permission, she lowers her neck and snorts.

He rolls his shoulders and squints at the small streak of sunshine that’s fought its way through the clouds. The wind from the mountains has numbed the lower half of his face, and his fingers ache. Until he goes back home in time for Christmas, he’ll need to accept that the frost-bite on his fingers is permanent—just an addition to everything else.

It's unavoidable; the condition for letting him travel here in the first place was that he’d find something, anything, to help him find the will to live again, despite everything he’s been dealt with. The frostbite wasn’t included then, but it is now.

He pats Eístla's neck. “Okay. One more time.”

Collecting her, they take off cantering down the narrow dirt road. Even glances at her front to make sure she is on the right rein, before asking her to take shorter and shorter leaps. Her back rises, her hind legs are beneath her, and then—after forty-five minutes and almost two weeks of work—she finally falls into the unmistakable rhythm of tölt.

And Even cannot help it: a little cry of victory escapes him.

He lets her hold the tölt as long as she's able to, and then allows her to canter back to the farm. They slow down to a walk just as  Isak is heading back from the corral with Uða. They enter the courtyard at the same time; Even with the panting Eístla and Isak with Uða beside him; both looking tired but content.

Even dismounts and nods towards Uða. “How was she?”

Isak pats the pinto's neck. “She’s loosened up enough; kissed the left stirrup just now, so a lot of progress. You?”

He loosens the cinch and Eístla gives a deep, satisfied sigh. “She's practically a master of all five now,” he says, stretching his arms in the air. Even can hear his back crack and a smile takes over Isak's face when he understands what it means.

“She managed her tölt?”

Even nods and scratches Eístla's mane. “Finally.”

Suddenly the door to the stable slams open, revealing Jón. He's got one of the colts in an improvised halter of rope. It has its ears pointed forward, but otherwise, it's calm.

Jón shakes his head when he sees them. “Are you just lazing around here?”

Isak's shoulders tighten, but he nods. “We're just finishing up. Having breakfast soon.”

Jón nods and squints, looking up the road, before turning to them with a smile. “You do that. Don't want you to work yourselves to the bone. But then I have something for you.”

Even raises his eyebrow. “Oh?”

”I took a trip down to the fence down at the fourth paddock yesterday, and it needs some repairs,”Jón says, squinting towards the beach. “Just a couple reinforcements to the boards should be enough. Ýr and Fleyta need to run off some energy, so take them with you.”

Isak nods. “Roger that.”

“Anyhow, get some food in you first. I had a coffee in the tack room just now. It should still be warm.”

Without a helmet, and without saying another word, Jón takes off. The colt follows without a thought; tölting behind him towards the corrals further up the hill.

Even and Isak watch them as become smaller and smaller in the distance.

Isak shoots Even a glance, and then they just start laughing. It's one of those laughs that bubble up from within, that you have no control over, but that have to come out in some way.

“He's so weird,” Isak says when he's composed himself, and shakes his head. “So weird.”

Even shrugs. “Jón's—special,” he says for lack of a better word, coaxing one last snort of laughter from Isak.

“True.”

They release the horses in the paddock closest to the stables—Eístla immediately drops to the ground, effectively covering her grey-white body in a thin layer of mud—before they take shelter from the sudden rain in the heated tack room.

Things are very different from the way it is at home. Not just the horse-keeping itself— herding instead of getting the horses one by one from the paddocks, the fact that everyone seems to have some farrier skills, the general attitude towards everything to do with horses—but some things are still the same.

Like the tack room.

Just like in the stable at home, it’s small, but heated. The scent of leather and saddle soap sticks to the wallpaper like smoke. An old sofa with a dirty, colourful wool blanket sits under the window, against the only wall that’s not covered in tack.

On the little counter, the coffee maker is waiting for them as promised; drops of condensation coat its inside. The window is all fogged up, so Even puts his knee on the sofa and wipes his forearm across the pane to let the thin grey light enter. Isak finds them two cups from the cabinet under the counter and pours some coffee. He pulls out the sandwiches waiting in the same cupboard.

Before Even has a chance to react, the sandwiches lands in his lap. He shoots Isak a sharp glance—but there’s no venom in it. He can’t be annoyed when Isak smiles at him; he tries to purse his lips, but they keep twitching.

“What was that for?”

Isak slumps into the couch with a relieved sigh. “You have to be more alert.”

Spending all morning outside in the cold has given Isak's cheeks some colour, makes him look a bit more alive, less hollow-eyed. Even can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Not only because he is so beautiful that sometimes it's hard to keep looking, but also because of the way he sits; drinking from that chipped coffee mug, he looks so much like Sonja after a day on the slopes that it gets difficult to breathe.

So, Even doesn't.

Just takes a bite out of his sandwich instead, ignoring the burning sensation in his chest.

He knows things haven't been good between him and Sonja for a long time. That she’s been getting on his nerves more and more; that her obsession with keeping a constant eye on him makes him feel trapped. As if he's a child, not a twenty-one-year-old who’s capable of making his own choices. And at the same time, he understands why. Once upon a time, he appreciated it—the fact that, even though she might not think highly of him anymore, she didn't leave him.

That she stayed through it all; that she's still here.

But.

At the same time, it's also that very thing that isn't working anymore. The thing that stops him from replying to her messages until a week has passed. He knows that he has to answer them because otherwise she will call and start interrogating him again. And in whatever way he tries to explain, she'll think he's lying.

Not to be mean, but as a means of protecting them both.

He understands that much. But it's not that easy to be rational when it comes to himself; when it becomes personal, no matter which way he turns it. When everyone else seems to think he himself, his whole being, is the most prominent cause of the problems.

As if he’s too blind to see it for himself.

"Do you want to try Ýr today?"

Isak's voice cuts through his thoughts like a razor.

“What?”

“Do you want to try riding Ýr today? Down to the fence.”

Isak has a strange look on his face. Even stares back before clearing his throat. When that fails to get rid of the dryness, he takes a swig of coffee instead.

“Why would I want to?”

He makes sure he's smiling. The last thing he wants is Isak thinking that something is off. Because nothing is.

Isak shrugs, his gaze fixed on the toes of his boots, and Even realises what's going on. “You'd rather ride my horse? To see if she's faster?”

At that, Isak snorts. “Faster? I’d like to see that.”

“Fleyta is currently the fastest horse on the farm.”

“You sure seem to think that.”

“Ha! So that's why you're willing to practice the trot with my lady. To see if it's true?”

As predicted, Isak laughs. It forces the coffee down his windpipe and Even pats him on his back to help him breathe again.

Isak just shakes his head. “Your lady?”

“Yes. You know how she is.”

“You sound like one of those crazy horse girls,” he says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “Crazy?”

“Okay, not crazy. But you know the type,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “Your lady, Even?”

“Fleyta is a little lady,” Even says, and trying not to let the word get under his skin. “With a big ego. So, I'm just wondering why you'd rather struggle with her than with Ýr, who yields like a dream.”

“Just a change of pace,” Isak says. “But if you want Fleyta, I have no problems with Ýr. I like her a lot.”

Even leans forward to get a better look at Isak's face. “You know I'd trade with you, right? If you want to know if Ýr is the slower one.”

“Fuck off! We're so much faster than you!” Isak's voice is sharp, but the elbow that hits Even between the ribs is gentle. “You'll see.”

Even nods. “I can't wait.”

 

* * *

 

Apart from the fact that the horses are always dirtier than at home in Oslo, everything runs more smoothly here. Even doesn’t have to check in with ten people before he does something.  It only takes five minutes to pack a backpack with the tools and pieces of wood they need, and they’re ready to start riding.

The rain from the morning has turned into a light snowfall, the flakes melting as soon as they hit the ground. The wind softens, but the temperature seems to drop with every step away from the stables. The land belonging to Eídunn and Jón is about five hundred acres, and the fourth paddock is furthest away, where the property borders Sveinn's.

Isak and Even stay close so that they don’t lose each other. Sometimes so close that Even feels Isak’s legs brush against his. The wind bites at his cheeks, and he pulls his scarf slightly higher up his chin.

“How do you think she’s doing?”

Isak draws his attention back to Even from wherever it had wandered and looks at him with dark eyes. “Good. She's connected and relaxed.” While he is talking, he collects Ýr, who snorts, and struggles to work her hind legs beneath her, let them take the brunt of her weight. “It's just the flying pace. Jón says I have to make her lower her neck because she holds her head too high.”

"Jón's strict," Even says as Isak gets tight lines around his mouth, and his shoulders slump beneath his raincoat. “He went to Hólar. Most people wouldn't think about whether or not she keeps her head raised. The most important thing is that she's keeping it in flying pace. Ruthless. "

Isak bites his lip as if he's holding back a smile. “Fine,” he finally says, before speeding up, and Fleyta struggles to keep up with the other tall mare.

The sounds of gravel crunching under their hooves and clicking from the snaffle bits fill the air. Ýr starts chewing on the bit as they fall into a trot. The snowfall stops as the clouds open up behind them, and from both his own and Fleyta's nostrils, warm breaths become visible in the cold air. Naturally gifted with the tölt, she's struggling a lot with the extended, relaxed steps of the trot that Jón wants her to master.

Even can sense the beginnings of a stitch in his side, telling him that it's time to slow down soon.

“Hey. Should we race to the fence?” Isak asks.

Their shadows stretch out on the gravel road. Even smirks. “Flying pace, or what?”

Isak shrugs. “If I'm to have any chance at beating the two of you—”

“Ready, set, go!”

Without warning, Even touches his calves to Fleyta's sides—and she takes off like a bullet down the road.

Gravel and clay spray up behind them, hitting Even’s back while her hooves thunder against the ground. The air above the yellowing, snow-spotted fields is clear, making the snow sparkle when the sun burns through the last bit of fog. Ýr and Isak are not far behind, but Fleyta is, despite her ugly form, faster than any other horse on the farm.

She runs so fast that her hooves barely touch the ground.

The meters disappear beneath them, almost out of control. But as the wind tears through his hair, Even can't help but laugh. The sunlight makes him squint, and the whole world’s contained within him, sparkling and warm.

Perhaps he should be careful, pay more attention, but he couldn’t care less.

Just as they reach the last turn before Sveinn's, something black appears in the corner of his eye. And then, despite his best attempts, Isak overtakes him on the inside. Ýr, who must have run as fast as possible, fumbles for her balance as they cross the border. Isak parries by leaning in the opposite direction, and they avoid tipping over.

When she's steady again, Isak drops the reins, puts both arms in the air and roars, “Gotcha!”

There's a glow to him as he sits there, panting, cheeks red from the wind, astride his black mare. A revelation of ruffled hair that sticks out from under his beanie and a boyish smile that forces something vital in Even to shift a few inches to the right.

And he knows it will never fall back in place.

He makes Fleyta halt, and she flares her nostrils so loudly that she drowns out his heartbeat. He combs through her mane as he leans forward over her neck. She reaches her head back, rubbing it against his leg to make him scratch her forehead.

“That was fast!” Even beams.

Isak tips his head back and laughs. “Without a head start, too.”

“We started like half a second before you.”

A water droplet runs down Isak's neck and into the collar of his raincoat. “Still cheating,” he says, then leans forward to pat Ýr's neck. “Good work, girl! I didn't think you had it in you.”

Ýr closes her eyes and breathes in reply.

A comfortable silence settles, and they let the horses rest for a minute. Isak rubs at the spray of clay stuck on his cheek and Even closes his eyes. Tries not to let similarities and differences and everything else fill him up too much, even though it’s much too late for that.

You can't go back once you’ve stepped off the ledge, he thinks. Once you've let go, there’s no turning back. Even swallows. Allows the realisation to take root and wind its thick vines around his ribs before he opens his eyes again; he has to squint against the light of the sun.

“Shall we patch up that fence?” he says, turning Fleyta around on the spot. “We missed the path.”

Isak nods and collects Ýr again. “Yes, otherwise I’ll get scolded for that,” he says, letting out a short, mirthless laugh.

“It's nothing personal, Isak.”

Isak snorts and comes up next to Fleyta; the mares are standing side by side. “I know. But sometimes, it feels like it.”

“I know,” Even says, and he can't stop himself from putting his hand on Isak's shoulder. It causes Isak to go a little rigid, but then his tight smile changes into something softer, slightly younger.

They turn down the narrow path along the fence. The grass on either side is long, yellow and covered in frost. It crunches when Fleyta walks through it. Ýr's breath is audible behind them, still loud because of the racing.

It's easy to see which parts will need repairing. Along the bottom row, no less than three of the boards are broken. Two have been kicked, but the third break might be due to the storms, judging by the frayed edges. This far from the farm, the wood is old and easily breaks if it gets hit by something travelling with a gust of wind.

Even dismounts and loosens the saddle-girth a notch. He unfastens the clasp around one of Fleyta's snaffle bit rings, looping the reins over the fence before clasping it again. She won't run, but better safe than sorry.

Isak does the same thing to Ýr's reins, before nudging one of the broken planks with his foot. “How do we fix this?”

“Temporarily.” Even squats down to rummage through the backpack. “We take two of the smaller pieces, put them on each side, and beat a nail through it for support. I've only done this once, but it went well. We'll be fine now too.”

At that, Isak shakes his head and smiles. “If you say so.”

Isak squats beside him, and Even ducks under the fence to face him from the other side. “Hold it still.”

The first bit goes quickly; Isak holds the two-by-four, and Even puts the nails through from the inside. Luckily, all the horses are too far away to notice what they're doing. Curious as they are, they'd make a cute but annoying audience. But given the size of the paddock, there’s nothing to worry about. The fence stretches all the way down to the sea, and the whole paddock is two dozen hectares, more or less.

The wind had picked up down by the shore when they stop, causing the clouds to disperse, and making it possible to see the entire the fjord.

Beyond the rocks and further out, all the way to the horizon.

They change places when the wind reminds Even that the frostbite on his fingers never truly healed. Even hands over the hammer and the long nails he was keeping between his teeth. Isak takes them carefully and Even distracts himself by looking towards the sea.

It’s greyish blue, now that the sun reaches it; the horizon is a straight line, seeming almost within reach.

“You know, according to old Norse lore, there is a fence at the end of the world. And if you’re powerful enough, you’ll be able to break through it and end up in space. Did you know that?”

The sound of hammer against wood halts for a moment before Isak continues. “No. Not really.”

“Not a fan of trivia?”

That coaxes a laugh from Isak. He shrugs and drives in the next nail through with three precise strokes. “No, Even. I don’t read up on that sort of stuff. No one even believes in those stories anymore.”

“Hey. You’d better think before saying that out loud here. I think like one percent of Icelanders say they still do. That's a lot.”

“You're kidding?”

“No, I swear, it's true! I promise.” Even puts his hand on his chest, leaning forward to try to interpret the expression on Isak's face. “And if you don't keep up with that, what do you keep up with, Isak Valtersen?”

Isak shrugs, but he smiles that sloping grin again. He is very cute when he does. “I don't know. Progress in scientific research, maybe? Astrophysics, pharmaceuticals and stuff like that.”

“You took Science, didn't you?”

“Yes. You clearly didn't,” Isak says, and Even cannot help laughing at his tone, even though he realises what this undoubtedly will lead to. There's a pressure over his chest, but it doesn't hurt. Not at all.

“No, you're right. I took the General course, but then I passed my exams privately.”

“You didn't graduate?”

Didn't graduate, but stopped it all. Sewed himself back together. Took the time to get to know himself again; all new stitches and folds that held the pieces in place. Studied that parts of the curriculum he'd missed, all with Sonja's help, under her watchful eye.

He peeks between Fleyta's muddy legs to determine how tall the waves are.

“Yes. But from home. It was easier.”

Without looking at him, Even can feel Isak's eyes on the back of his neck. Heavy and filled with so many questions. “Where did you go before? Because you went to school in Oslo, right?” Isak asks after a while, his voice careful.

Even looks back at him. “Yeah. I went to Bakka.”

“Oh. Right. Not Nissen?”

“Pretty sure it was Bakka.”

And the rest of the world is pretty sure too.

Isak swallows and takes out one of the nails from between his lips. “Because I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Even draws a breath that gets stuck in his throat. His heart starts to beat faster for more than one reason. “Maybe you have. But I think I would've remembered you.”

Isak stiffens; the hammer goes still in the air, as if he’s a statue. Then he twists his head and strikes the last nail through the board. “Good with faces?”

The breath comes out and Even feels his lungs relax. “Something like that.”

Together, they shake the fence to make sure that patches hold. Nothing breaks or makes a noise. Out at sea, the clouds are gathering again; an omen of another incoming burst of snow and rain.

Even pulls up the hood of his anorak, then puts the tools back into the backpack before mounting Fleyta again. They set off, and just as they get back up to the road, the first raindrop lands on his shoulder. He sends a quick glance at the dark grey sky. “They’ve had a bit of rest now. Race me back?”

“Why not?” Isak says, and without warning, Ýr sets off in a gallop.

And Even follows.

 

* * *

 

His phone vibrates on the nightstand just when he's switched off the light. This far from the nearest urban area, the darkness is impenetrable, and his eyes sting as he swipes away the home screen.

Immediately, he sees the message from his Mum. It's the usual one, asking how it's going, if he's home-sick, how much snus he has left. It's easy to answer—good, no, even though it's strange seeing snow in October, he's used to just about all of it—and gets a thumbs up right back.

Mom is easy to talk to. They'd had a rough patch right after she'd found him in the wardrobe, but it had been a rough time for all of them. She and dad had taken those months to learn how to talk to him again, and after all the long evenings she'd spent just sitting beside him on the floor of his room, he'd forgiven her.

And she’d forgiven him.

It’s different with Sonja.

He takes a deep breath and opens the message he’s been ignoring for the past two days.

From _Sonja <3 _08:34:

_Could you please answer a little faster? Are you sleeping well? Miss you._

It's short. Cool. Controlling. Even though, somewhere—someplace that’s not controlled by the small emotional monster claiming it’s right every minute of every day—he knows she cares, but it's so hard to see. Especially when she finishes the message with a period; it's evidence enough that this, all of him, is something she's doing out of duty.

Even closes his eyes, conjures her up in front of him. Her blonde hair, the slightly slanted front teeth, her sparkling blue eyes. The long throat, the birthmarks on her cheek. But what had previously been enough to make his heart rush in his chest—that thing that made his whole body light up, throb, turn into a pulse, made his toes curl—isn’t there anymore.

Instead, the thought of her makes a black, disgusting mix of anger and bad conscience spread through him.

It’s nothing new. right. Doing this over and over again, that is. But Einstein’s definition of insanity never quite seemed to fit. Especially not when it comes to feelings and how to act on them when faced with reality. He rolls onto his side. The splits creak as he folds the pillow under his head and looks at the blinking cursor.

In a different universe, it's so easy. There, he's just as rotten on the outside, as he pretends he isn't inside here. And he writes to her—right now, in the middle of the night on a Saturday in mid-October—that he doesn't want her anymore.

In a different universe, he does the right thing; tells her that he wants someone else.

In this one, he just stares at the screen until it goes dark again. Until the world turns black, and only the stars outside illuminate the night. He exhales a breath that he didn’t know he was keeping in and puts his phone—screen facing down—on the nightstand again.

It takes him two hours to fall back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Herding the horses back from the paddock is usually no problem.

The weather has been awful all day, the mist like a thick, dull blanket, keeping even the tiniest hint of sunlight out. From the time they woke up, today has felt like infinite dawn. When afternoon starts to turn into night, it starts to pour, the rain steadily increasing.

Even puts the pitchfork back on the hook when Isak and Spes return from the riding stables. Their eyes hardly meet before Isak just shakes his head and sighs.

“No success?”

“No.” He sighs, but still scratches Spes on the forehead. “She's—I'm doing something wrong, I know, but she's also not the sharpest.”

The frustration shines through and Even musters up a faint smile. “See what Jón thinks? Maybe ask him to watch you?”

“Yeah, right.” Isak sighs. The wrinkle between his eyebrows and the downturned corners of his mouth say it all.

Even clears his throat. ”Or Eídunn. She can help you at just as much.”

Isak pulls the harness off of Spes' head before he lets her go into the stall and closes the door where she can reach the hay. "That’s true."

Even nods, and puts his hands in the pockets of his anorak. “Ready to take in the rest?”

Drops of rain whip so hard against the small windows that it sounds like continuous gunfire. Isak’s shoulders rise, but then he nods. You’re forced to have an odd relationship with the weather here, Even muses. On the one hand, you have to recognize the dangers that come with it; on the other, you can't shy away from venturing out into what’s practically a small storm.

Isak has learned quickly, and Even smiles, opens the door and they brave the gusts of wind and rain.

The path leading down to the paddocks is almost a groove by now, worn out by hooves and boots, the rain and the wind have made it turn into streaky mud, causing the underlying clay to show. The beams from their flashlights travel back and forth over it, showing where it is safe to walk. Not that it helps. When Even goes to close the gate behind them, his foot loses its grip, nearly making him slip. Isak manages to get a hold on him at the very last moment—arms around him, his chest against Even's back—and his eyes glitter with suppressed laughter when they let go of each other.

Then they trudge on without talking about it at all.

But it doesn't prevent the burning sensation from igniting inside of him. Heat begins to spread from his stomach—only to be instantly replaced by the black, oily feeling of guilt.

Even swallows, and redirects his focus to opening the paddock to get them in.

With their arms in the air to make themselves as big as possible, repeated yells and flashlights wavering, they alert the horses that they are on their way. The horses gather together, and from there it is relatively easy to make them walk through the narrow aisle formed between the paddocks.

The light from the stables shines through the darkness. The string walks in front of them between the fence against the gates; hooves beat rhythmically against the ground, the horses' breaths cloud in front of the flashlights. When they're just outside the stables, the horses usually stay in the corral which you then have to cross to open the stable door and let them in one by one.

Today that doesn't happen.

The horses amble along—straight through the open gate that Even, at that very moment, realises that he forgot to close behind him.

“Fuck!”

His feet are stuck in the ground, even though, until now, his most primal instinct has always been flight; to flee, from everything and everyone.

But now, he's unable to do anything.

Only able to just stand there, and watch as thirty or more horses disappear farther and farther into the dark.

“Even. Even!”

Isak's hectic voice breaks through the fog, causing him to twist his head from the opening in the fence that should not be there.

“Even, what the fuck do we do?”

Isak looks at him with big eyes while the herd disappears up the road leading towards town. Every part of Isak's body shows that he wants to do something; act now and think later. Run after them. But everything is so different here and it makes it difficult to take any decisions.

Even throws a glance into the stable, following the first track his brain wants to take.

“Get Fleyta. Don't bother with a saddle, just get her bridle and one of the stallions'. I’ll get Fagrí.”

Isak nods and disappears into the stables while Even runs back up to the other paddock where the stallions stay day and night. The rain falls horizontally now, and it's hard to open the fence since he can't see anything, and his hands slip on the wet wood. The only thing that works in his favour is that Fagrí and Stjerní are standing just inside the fence.

So Even only has to herd the flock leader out of the paddock and back to the stables.

Isak has already mounted Fleyta when Even gets there. He has put a headlamp around his beanie and tosses Even the promised bridle as soon as he gets within reach. Fagrí is wet and cold with rain, but cooperative and calm when he takes the bit Even has warmed against his neck for a minute. Then he stands still while Even takes hold of the mane at his withers and thanking whoever’s in charge that Fagrí isn't very tall; a well-timed jump is enough for Even to smoothly throw his leg over Fagrí’s back and pull himself up.

Turning the horses around, they then take off after the herd. Paddocks and fences flank the road, so there aren’t many places the horses can have disappeared to. He's not used to riding without a saddle, and although he usually has the stirrup leathers as far as they can go, it is something entirely different to not have that support at all.

“We'll herd them back around?” Isak shouts through the rain and Even nods.

“Yeah. Try to get in front of them!”

They know what to do, but it's still tricky. The rain makes it hard to see and more than once a horse sneaks past and fall on the wrong side of both Fagrí and Fleyta. It's only when Isak succeeds in planting Fleyta across the road in front of them that things start to work out for them. As soon as they've made the string turn around, the horses decide to follow Fagrí instead of the road.

Isak is quick on the uptake, and he and Fleyta come together as the rearguard. It's pitch dark by now and Even feels the adrenaline rushing through him. They’ve never done anything like this without Jón or Eídunn. In spite of that, they succeed in getting the horses back into the corral in front of the stable. One of the geldings tries to break away in the last turn down towards the stables, but with an impressive move, Isak rides Fleyta close and pushes it back into the string before anything can come from it.

Even slides down from Fagrís back, sweat and rain water trickling down from his hair and into his mouth. Raises his arms above his head to make himself bigger, and then pushes the horses back into the slightly warmer stables.

Their hooves clatter against the stone floor, and he closes the gate about them with a click

Even leans on the gate and takes a moment to breathe. Tries to calm whatever it is that is moving in his chest. It's jumping and spitting, falling into an uneven rhythm that he’s not comfortable with. However, taking a few breaths of the cold, clear Icelandic autumn air makes it subside.

Something moves behind him, and he turns, expecting to see that it is Fagrí. Instead, Fleyta's soft muzzle gently nudges him behind his ear. Isak’s still mounted on her back.

“Nice work,” he says, and although it's grey and the rain is pouring down, Even can see his sparkling smile. He leans over Fleyta's neck and Even bumps their fists when Isak holds his out. He's unable to hold back his smile.

“You too.”

Isak shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he says, stretching the vowel as far as it goes, smoothly sliding down from Fleyta's back.

Even can't help but laugh.

They fetch Fagrí again, who is obediently waiting around, and Even leads him back to the paddock.

When he comes back—shaking off the water and stomping to get the worst of the clay off from his boots—Isak’s already led the horses to their right boxes, and put up Fleyta in the aisle. He is bent over, struggling with the mud and stones caked up inside her hooves and in the feathering at her fetlocks.

He comes up, breathless and red in the face when Even closes the door. He sends Even a strange look over Fleyta’s spine.

Even raises his eyebrows. “You don’t have to do that, you know. It'll fall off by itself.”

Isak shrugs. “You said she tends to catch mould,” he says and disappears down again. “Thought it better to get rid of what’s in her feathering.”

“True,” Even says, although he knows he's never told Isak that. And he knows that Isak knows that too. He takes one of the brushes from the bucket on the wall and starts working on Fleyta's other leg, carefully getting all of the mud out.

They remain in the illuminated part of the stables until late, grooming Fleyta long after she’s clean and dry. And being the horse she is, she just hangs her head and nearly falls asleep where she stands; leaning on one hind leg and breathing slowly.

They turn off the light and close up before heading out again. Without headlamps or flashlights, the darkness is overwhelming as they walk back along the stables to the extension; Isak in front of him, leaning against the wind and the rain. Even resists the urge to hold on to his shoulder when a gust of wind from the sea causes the wet drawstrings on his anorak to whip him across the chin

At the door, they have to lean on one another so Isak can get the key out of his pocket. When the door opens, they almost fall into the kitchen, giggling from fatigue and the absolute absurdity that this evening has been. For a moment, they just stand on the doormat, an arm around each other's shoulders, merely looking at each other. Isak's eyes are big, and he's still panting; looking ruddy and so much alive. He bites his lower lip, and the pressure makes the skin white before it gets even redder when he lets go.

It feels like a hand takes hold of Even's aorta, cutting off the blood flow, the life force, before letting go, lets one single heartbeat reach every crevice of his body.

Devastatingly strong.

Isak clears his throat, and they both jump and start peeling off their wet clothes. One of them turns on the ceiling lamp, and Even takes out hangers to put their soaking wet raincoats on while Isak—with bare legs, boxers and his still dry base layer shirt that defines his sculpted shoulders—find the small heater that Jón's hid next to the closed fireplace.

It takes a few attempts, and a well-placed kick before the old thing coughs and starts up.

The sound fills the air between them.

Isak doesn't seem to be able to stand upright anymore, so he plops down next to the wall. Studies how the hot air from the heater makes their coats and Icelandic sweaters move back and forth.

Even knows that he shouldn't. He can no longer feel his toes. And in fact, what he should want to do is to just crawl into his bed upstairs and leave this behind him.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he slowly sinks down in front of Isak. Within the radius of his body heat.

Sits there and takes him in.

Faint freckles over the bridge of his nose. Curly hair lying sweaty, damp and flat against his forehead. Dark eyebrows, his eyes and his mouth. With that cupid's bow, and his lips slightly parted. Small puffs of breath pass between them—it tingles where they pass Even’s cheek and bottom lip.

They generate a voltage, like a battery, and Even can't help it.

It is as if Isak is a singularity—a black hole with an inherent, indisputable gravitational pull that Even is helpless against—and everything becomes an indistinguishable mass as soon as you get too close.

Time is protracted. Minutes last for hours. Every sound is distorted and amplified.

The light refracts and the fall looks shorter from here.

And even his perception of thoughts and morals regarding his existence and identity distorts this close to Isak. In most instances, Even would have moved by now. Pulled away as to not be the cause of something bad—not to ruin something that should have been left untouched—that he won't be able to take back. Something that can't be undone. Because as long as the stone is left unturned, there is always something to come back to.

Instead, he leans forward. Focuses on Isak's smooth eyelids—his downcast eyes—and his long eyelashes. Looks for a sign, from the universe, profane or holy doesn't matter, that it’s time to stop now.

That it's time to give up; time to stop pretending he’s God.

Time comes to a halt, vibrates with all its contained energy until he decides to let go.

He's just about to close the small distance between them and open his mouth, when Isak suddenly twists his head. His neck is all blotched with red, and his Adam's apple bobs a few times as he swallows and Even tries to not think about the hole that has just opened up below him.

“I should—I should probably go to bed. Now.”

White noise fills his ears. Isak draws a shivering breath, and uses the wall to stand up. His thighs shake from the effort. They are so close that Even can see his muscles play under the thin skin.

Slowly, Isak goes to his room. For a second he stops, halfway between Even and the door. But before any of them can say anything, he takes the last few steps and closes the door behind him.

It shuts with with a thud, but then it goes as quiet as it possibly can with a storm wailing around the house.

Even stays for a while—hypnotised by the drying clothes, the warm air from the heater, his own heartbeat—before he finally gets to his feet. Goes up to the sink and swallows his medication, sipping the water straight from the tap before walking up the stairs.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

A three-day blizzard rolls in the next day. It's raw and violent for the beginning of November, and it prevents them from doing anything but feeding the horses and letting them exercise in the indoors corral.

Isak doesn't say a word. And it's impossible to know if it's a punishment or a sign.

When they get back into the living quarters after the evening feed, Isak peels off his outerwear and disappears to his room. Even doesn't see him until the following morning; his face is ashen, silent and withdrawn.

Either it's out of humiliation or because he doesn’t want anything to do with Even ever again.

The latter seems the most likely.

But it doesn't explain the way Isak keeps looking over at him; starving and quick, followed by a twitch of his jaw.

The signals he keeps sending contradict each other so much that Even has no idea how to respond. Doesn’t know if he is to risk it and venture out on this thin ice that cracks with every step, leaving no opportunity to redistribute his weight or increase his pace.

Or if he is to turn back, abandon this whole thing.

The blizzard rages on, causing the window panes to rattle. The wind yanks at the tiles, hard enough that it sounds like they're about to fly off. It’s worse upstairs and Even almost gets a little claustrophobic, lying in the dark, his face illuminated by his phone. He deleted social media long ago, so it's not even that much fun. His fingers are a stiff with the cold, and he is quite hungry.

He tosses his duvet to the side and goes to find a clean wool sweater from the pile that has accumulated in the armchair by the stairs.

The thick clouds obscure the night sky, and no stars are visible. It’s impossible to make out the fjord, even from up here. The darkness has a different quality to it when wrapped in snow. Almost as if it’s covered in cotton. On an impulse—coming from the same place within him that wants to experience the world without a filter and jump without a parachute—he leans his cheek against the window; watching with crossed eyes as his hot breath spreads like a cloud over the cold glass.

How it forms a blurred spot, makes it hard to see.

When his cheek goes numb, he pulls his sweater over his head and goes down the stairs.

The kitchen is dark. The porcelain pendant lamp above the kitchen table is turned off and Even has to grasp in the air until he finds the switch on the cooker hood’s light. Once lit, he locates the smallest of their three pots. Fills it with water and places it on the stove just as the door to Isak's room opens.

Even jumps and spins around on the spot. Isak has his towel slung over his arm. The light above the stove feebly tries to illuminate the room, but it only makes it halfway, causing Isak to look like a ghost; eyes wide and shoulders tense.

Even scrapes the words from where they're stuck at the back of his tongue. “Hi.”

Across the room, Isak visibly swallows. “Hey.”

Even nods at the towel. “Taking a shower?”

“Did you also want to—?”

“No.” Even shakes his head. “No, I'm good. I'll do it tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

The clock on the wall ticks away. Isak’s eyes are fixated on a point over Even's right shoulder. Perhaps he's looking at the granular wallpaper. Maybe at the window behind him.

Even clears his throat.

“I am—was going to make tea. And something to eat. Do you want anything?”

Isak hesitates. Then he nods. “No tea. But, yes to the food. That—thank you.”

“No problem.”

He disappears into the bathroom with a half-hearted two-fingered salute. Even turns on the oven, and when the water boils, he quickly pours it into one of the mustard-yellow mugs. Adds a tea bag, watches it turn from clear to red. Takes cheese and butter out of the fridge and the last two slices of toast from the bag on the bench.

He doesn't turn around once. Not even when the bathroom door opens, and Isak's quick step pass over the worn, wooden floorboards.

Instead, he crouches down and basks in the warm orange light from the oven. Here, downstairs, the gusts of wind don’t rattle the house as much, but their whining is worse. High-pitched, whistling sounds that will not let anyone forget how cold and harsh the conditions are outside. Even closes his eyes. Basks in the warmth radiating from the oven, heating up his face. Then he opens his eyes, fascinated by the way the temperature causes the cheese to melt and spread out, sink into the bread before it eventually begins to bubble.

Just as he's pulled out the tray and put it on the kitchen counter, Isak comes back from his room. He’s put on a pair of worn joggers and is in the process of pulling a dark blue hoodie over his head as he walks—something that makes his t-shirt ride up.

Showing off a glimpse of his hipbones and the pale, soft skin of his stomach.

Even looks down at his hands. Picks up the kitchen roll and tears off a pair of sheets to put the greasy toasties on. "Do you want to see if there's anything on?" he suggests and nods towards the small television that’s precariously balanced on the window ledge.

Isak's head reappears, popping through the neckline; hair tousled and wet. “What about the news? Might be a bit hard to understand, though.”

Even shrugs. “The images might help?” he says, a bit sheepish and hears Isak breathe out a soft laugh.

“That's true.”

In silent agreement, they sit down at each end of the sofa. Isak takes the remote and zaps between the only two channels they're able to tune into here—it's a tie between a handball match and something that looks like a talk show.

There's a crunch as Isak takes a bite of his toastie. “Handball, or?”

To Even, it doesn't matter, but something in Isak's eyes makes him nod. Isak throws the remote on the table, then sinks so far down into the cushions that he can put his feet on the coffee table.

“Do you know what it is? What kind of match, I mean.”

Even squints at the ridiculously small screen. “No clue. A qualifying match, perhaps.”

“I watch football sometimes,” Isak says after a while and takes another bite out of the toastie. In the blue light from the television, a drop of water shimmers on his earlobe. “Not this.”

“Can't say I watch sports a lot, to be honest.”

“Hmm.”

Isak wiggles his toes. One sock has a hole in it; the edges frayed to the point where his little toe is about to protrude.

The match ends 31 - 28 to the white team, and as soon as it’s done, Isak gets up from the couch. “I'm going to bed,” he says quietly, taking Even's mug to put it in the sink seemingly on autopilot.

From the couch, Even watches as he then switches off the lamp above the stove—and plunges the room into darkness.

“Oh shit. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

Even stays on the couch, listening to Isak navigate to his room. A thud indicates that he hits something on the way, but despite the lack of light, Even watches as his silhouette eventually emerges from the depths of darkness in the kitchen's end of the room.

Even swallows. “Good night, Isak.”

Isak stiffens; twice, there is a sound of knuckles rapping against a door frame. Then, he answers.

“Good night, Even,” he says, as he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

On the third day, when Even once again wakes up to the walls shaking with the gusts of wind from the sea, he wants to draw a deep sigh and burrow back into his duvet. Every rattle of the sheet tin roof kills his ears, hammers at his skull, even though he hasn't had a drink in several months.

Nevertheless, every bang makes his brain hurt.

Last night, he had fumbled his way up the stairs, only to receive another message from Sonja.

It doesn't exactly help with what he's trying to forget, and for every message he ignores,  another layer of black, oily anxiety sticks to the inside of his chest. And it will only get worse the longer he keeps lying around in bed thinking about it.

He rolls out of bed, dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday and heads down the stairs.

Isak sits at the kitchen table when he comes down. The mug of coffee he’s downing is definitely not his first. He’s looking over at a package sitting on the other end of the table.

When Even steps on the creaking fourth step, he looks up and smiles.

“Good morning.”

Even smiles back. “Good morning.”

Isak takes another sip from his mug. “Jón came by with that. For you.”

It might not be anything, but considering what kind of box it is, it's not good. Had he read the message yesterday, he might have known what was to come.

It's a relatively new shoe box, and if he looks at the label, he knows he will be able to tell what shoes came in this box. Sonja has never been good at taking off labels, whether it is cutting them out of her shirts or scraping them off of Christmas presents. Even used to remind her, and she'd laugh at him and thank him for having such a keen eye for detail.

Now he only takes it. Swallows.

Isak smiles a little. “Who is that from?”

Fortunately, the address on it was written by Mum. He breathes and smiles back. “Mum and Dad.”

Isak walks across the room, dragging his sock-clad feet over the floor before he falls on the couch. Even sits beside him. Not close enough that they touch each other, but with them facing each other like this, it still feels intimate.

“Assorted junk,” he says, absentmindedly, while taking one of the kitchen knives and wedging it under the tape. The edge is rather blunt, so in the end, he rips through the packaging rather than cutting it to remove the lid.

“Stuff like this!”

He grins and holds up the row of snuff boxes. Isak raises his eyebrows.

“Snus?”

Even rolls it in his hand. Turns the kitchen knife in the right direction and cuts through the packaging with a quick move. The tape loosens and falls away, and with a rattle, half of the boxes jump out onto the floor. Two of them land with the lid down on the floor in front of the table, but the rest are upended and roll away.

He doesn't stop to think. Falls on the hard, wooden floor and succeeds in catching two boxes with one hand, the third rolling under the sofa bed. Quite slowly, but fast enough for him to not catch it.

It lies there, mocking him, just out of reach.

He can feel the smooth lid at his fingertips, but with his shoulder stuck on the edge of the sofa, it's still out of reach. With a sigh, he rolls onto his back. The floor is cold, but not enough to seep through his sweater.

Isak looks at him, still perching on the couch. Even can't help but smile at him.

“You don't know what snus is worth in this country?” he says, laughing, and Isak shakes his head. But he's smiling too, and that's always something.

Even closes his eyes.

“No?”

Even opens one eye to look at him; to watch how his hair shines golden in the warm light from the lamp above the kitchen table, how he bites his lip and is so beautiful that it almost hurts.

Beautiful—and forbidden.

“It’s illegal.”

“Illegal?”

“You're holding contraband in your hands.”

Isak wrinkles his nose. “You're kidding?”

Even shakes his head and throws one of the rescued snuff boxes at Isak, who catches it with both hands. It sounds like it hits his nails, but if it hurts, there wouldn't be a way to tell.

“No. It's too cheap abroad, so they only allow domestic snus, you know, that stuff you have to stick up your nose. Which, incidentally, is as unpleasant as it sounds,” Even adds, when he sees Isak's grimace. “And mom would rather I didn't smoke, so she agreed to become a smuggler.”

Isak laughs at him. Takes the box that Even threw at him, and opens it. The smell of cold, fresh tobacco fills the air, and Even takes a deep breath. He took the last pouch from last month's ration yesterday morning, but the last two weeks, he has had to stint himself.

In a way, the package couldn't have come at a better time.

“You got a package of snus?”

“Not only. Let’s check out the rest of the stuff in there.”

Isak opens the package again, and suddenly a bag of seigmenn lands on his stomach, along with a small white rectangular box.

“Candy, and what's that?”

“Medication.”

“You're ill?”

And that question, posed in that particular way, makes his insides hurt. It's a feeling he didn't know he wanted, but realises, suddenly, that he's longed for. It's like nicotine withdrawal: wanting something so badly, it’s like your whole body is hungry for something, but it's not until you take the next hit that you realise what.

Even swallows and takes the box; puts his thumb over the revealing name - Lithionit - and forces his face to remain relaxed. Forces himself to relax, as if nothing has happened.

“Just allergies.” The lie falls off his tongue, light and unobtrusive. “I used to be allergic to horses when I was younger. And then I'm allergic to the kind of medication you can easily get hold off here, so she sends them too.”

Isak nods, and looks convinced in a way that makes Even want to curl in on himself and disappear.

But it's for the best.

To have something to do, he throws back the snus, but holds on to the medication. Puts them in his back pocket and searches for the opening on the candy bag, while Isak continues to go through the packet. Puts away the bubble wrap that must've been mom's idea, and picks up one thing after the other that Even's asked for, or Mum thought he needed—whether it has practical or sentimental value.

A little more Norwegian candy. A t-shirt because he wears them out so quickly, and it's almost impossible to find them in his size so far out in the country.

He doesn't even think about the fact that sometimes disaster zones are the size of a postage stamp until Isak picks up the postcard.

“Who is Sonja?”

It's as if the whole world screeches to a halt.

Time stretches out. All sounds become distorted—their wavelengths extend to the point where they end up beyond the audible spectrum—and the whole world turns grey. And he just wants it to stop. Wants it to end. But he's only met with Isak's questioning, green eyes, that hasn't changed.

Green and questioning, with no judgement nor suspicion.

While he could save the situation just a few minutes ago, this lie doesn’t roll as easily off the tongue. He clears his throat and tries to loosen it up while he gets up and takes the card out of Isak's hand. Makes sure to smile all the time while doing it. Slow movements, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Just a friend,” he says. “She was the one who made me go here in the first place.”

The reason that the lie is stuck is that it's too close to the truth. A version of it, at least.

Isak puts his head down, but the grip he has on the postcard is light. Even takes it and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie.

“So, she's the one I'll send thanks to then?”

“For what?”

Isak is just about to open his mouth when there's a knock on the door. Before any of them can get up and open it, it's yanked open, and Jón sticks his head in. His nose is red, and he’s put on a hat that mostly resembles a dead animal.

“Boys. Do you want to go into town for a bit?”

Isak straightens his legs. From his place on the floor, Even hears his knees pop.

“Why?”

Jón steps inside and stomps off the snow sticking to his shoes before closing the door behind him. The cold follows him anyway, and Even crosses his arms over his chest when they start getting covered in goosebumps .

“Well, it would be a day trip. Sveinn and I are looking at some horses. We'll stay overnight, but he's already there, and Eídunn is going to a competition tomorrow. So I need one of you to drive the car back, either after dropping us off or tonight.”

They look at each other. Even shrugs. Since the weather is as it is, they've got nothing to do. And when you have fallen into something resembling a routine—albeit very, very much like _mañana mañana_ —of always having something to do, it’s the days off that are hard to cope with. Restlessness is inevitable, and it’s already started to seep into his body, slow and steady.

He looks back at Isak. “I'll come with.”

Isak nods before he can answer. “Yeah. Me too.”

Jón nods gently at them. “Thank you, boys. I'll leave in fifteen. If you want to change into something else.”

Without another word, he slips out the door again. They go to their respective rooms to put on something warmer than hoodies and sweatpants, and after that, Isak meets him by the door.

It's only then Even realises that he's never seen Isak in anything besides sweatpants or jodhpurs. Not that he's complaining, but something causes his blood to rush a little closer to the surface when he sees Isak in a pair of blue jeans, but still in his clunky, lined riding boots all laced up.

Isak's green eyes rest on him for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Ready?”

Even takes his woollen mittens off the shelf and pulls them over his hands—protection against the temperature and himself—before he nods.

And when Isak opens the door and the cold floods the room, Even barely feels it, flushed as he is.

 

* * *

 

 

The backseat of the Subaru is so lumbered up with riding equipment that there’s barely even room for one of them. Even sits in the front seat thanks to an unspoken longest legs-privilege, while Isak folds away the horsehair-covered rug—making Jón chuckle.

The smile Isak returns is only a bit forced.

Despite there being a thick and ever increasing layer of snow on the road, Jón drives like carjacker. Occasionally, the sturdy car drifts, but considering that the way is all but empty this at this hour and time of the year, Even isn't half as scared as he should be. Instead, he looks out the window—squinting to see  through the fog and look out towards the sea, or to glimpse the contours of the mountains surrounding them; keeping them shut-in and safe at the same time.

Once they arrive in the village, the white light slowly shifts into a grey-white glow. Jón parks outside the stable in the middle of town.

“You can enjoy yourselves here, or drive home now. Your call.”

Even casts a glimpse at Isak through the rearview mirror. He nods and Even looks at Jón. “Think we'll stay for a while, then.”

Jón pulls the scarf tighter around his neck. “Good. Sveinn wants to have a beer after, so if you want to drink some Icelandic draught with us old men, you can just show up at the pub later.”

“Nice. Which one?”

Jón’s already put the keys in Even's hand and is about to close the car door. He peeks back in and winks at Isak. “Impossible to miss it. There's only one, boy.”

And with that, he slams the door shut and steps away to the other big car that just turned up in the parking lot.

“Let's go.”

Although it's early November, the Christmas lights above the pedestrian street are up. They’re not lit yet, but the little lamps flutter in the increasing wind. The fact that horses are a part of everyday life here is quite apparent in this little street. Most window displays showcase some riding equipment, and Even can't help but laugh at Isak's face when they see a pair of old men ride along the pedestrian street—each drinking from a beer can while they argue in Icelandic.

The fog slowly envelops them and only the horses' clopping can be heard.

“Fuck, that looks nice,” he says after a while.

Even bumps him with his shoulder. “Beer and horses?”

Isak smiles that sloping half-smile of his and kicks a loose pebble in front of him. It goes off and strikes a lamppost with a ping. “Yes. Or, it's probably not safe at all. But it's chill.”

“Most see horses like a mean of transport here. Jón and Eídunn are unusually careful with theirs.”

“Yes, I know.” Isak sends him a long look. “But you can do both. Like, it's not mutually exclusive.”

“Yeah, you're right.”

The snow falls more and more quickly, and a layer is rapidly forming on the ground. It creaks under their shoes as they walk, until Even feels how his knees begin to protest from being too cold. He did put on his base layer, but the cuts through it anyways.

So when they pass by a small grocery store, he touches Isak's shoulder. “Want to warm up a bit?”

Isak nods. His nose has gotten quite red in the short time they’ve been out here, so they quickly disappear into the warm yellow light that spills out onto the snow-covered street.

For a while, they’re content with strolling among the shelves that reach the ceiling because it's so low and reading the ingredients of different items. Icelandic is a strange language. Even though he has been here for almost half a year, it’s still difficult to understand. Spoken,  it’s easier to understand—mostly because Eídunn speaks almost exclusively in Icelandic with them, unlike Jón, who relies entirely on his Icelandic Danish—but in writing it is different. It seems deceivingly easy to understand at first glance as some words and letters are almost identical to Norwegian.

But as soon as you try to read a sentence, it just doesn’t work at all.

“What do you think of this?” Even holds up a chocolate bar once they've reached the candy shelf. “It's an Icelandic speciality, it says.”

“To compensate for your patriotic seigmenn, you mean?”

Even flinches and reads a little more of the ingredients. “Exactly. Chocolate with salt liquorice filling.”

Isak wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“Sounds delicious!”

“No, it sounds disgusting!”

Even laughs, and stuffs the chocolate into the pocket of his anorak. “You have to try it before you say that.”

“Fair enough.”

At the checkout, Even remembers that they're almost out of coffee. Isak pays for the chocolate and then sits down on the bench between the entrance doors. Even turns back around, finds a pack of coffee—looks one extra time to make sure it's the right grind—before he jogs back.

The small shop also seems to function as a pharmacy as well. They have a small collection of assorted painkillers, but also a jar of Vaseline. The combination of lithium and the cold, incessant wind has made his lips more chapped than ever, so he takes it to avoid more of those cracks in the corners of his mouth; those sting like few other things do.

He's about to take the last step and pay when his eyes zero in on something at eye level.

His heart starts to beat a little harder in the chest. They have been inching back to closeness, but Isak still hasn't made any advances of his own after that night when the horses ran off. But, on the other hand, he hasn't pulled back either. He lets Even touch him—put his hands on his shoulders, brush their fingers together—without shrinking away.

A look through the glass doors confirms that Isak is still there. He has his back towards Even and doesn't seem to be in a hurry.

It has to mean something. Not enough, surely. Not enough to justify it. He doesn't even know if he wants to try it out but at the same time—

At the same time, it would be such a defeat, and a wasted opportunity if the occasion indeed arose. He expects nothing—nothing even close to what he projects on the inside of his eyelids before he falls asleep every night, that which always makes him tip over—but it would be like such a waste of a chance.

The girl at the checkout has picked up her phone, so he takes the chance. Grabs the condoms before he begins to regret it. The cashier doesn't even look at him when she scans them—is a bit too dead behind the eyes to care, if Even were to guess—and he goes back out to where Isak is waiting; playing some game on his phone.

“Ready to go?”

 

* * *

 

They continue along the short pedestrian street until they reach the pub that Jón talked about.

Inside, there’s a mix of people. Three older men are sitting at the counter speaking to the bartender, and at one of the long tables, a group of younger women is talking loudly amongst themselves while sipping beers, surrounded by a bunch of big backpacks.

He and Isak sit down in a corner near the window and try to get blood to flow into their fingers and toes again. The temperature seems to have fallen in the last hour, and it’s noticeable. Isak takes off his hat; his blond hair is curling with sweat and static electricity.

Even swallows and puts his mittens in the pocket of his coat.

“What do you want?”

Isak wrinkles his nose. “Do you think they have Tuborg?” he says with a smile while fingering at the menu on the worn wooden table.

“They have to. It's Danish.” Even opens the menu and quickly scans through the list of beers. “You don't want to support the local breweries while you're here?”

“No, not really—” Isak fidgets; raises his hands to pull off his red scarf while talking. Then he sighs. “I'm not really into, like, trying new stuff.”

“Why not?”

Isak shrugs and starts playing with an abandoned beer cap lying on the table. “Haven't psychoanalysed myself that deeply, Even,” he says, and something harsh and uncomfortable makes its way across his mouth; moves from one side to the other before it fades out.

“You know what?”

“No?”

The beer list is laminated and tied with small, fraying laces. He opens it again and puts it in front of Isak. “Let's share. You'll have a Tuborg, and I'll have—I don't know, choose one. One that looks exciting.”

Something sparkles in Isak's eyes before he raises his eyebrows and gives Even a look that tells him he’s convinced Isak to take on the challenge. “Okay?” He points to one of the stouts and one that is supposed to taste of oak. “That one.”

Even nods slowly. “Hmm. Good choice.”

“Have you ever tried that one? From— _Kaldí_ microbrewery?”

Even shakes his head. “No, but it looks interesting!”

“And what will you do if it's not any good, then?”

The look Isak sends him makes him pause. Makes him look into Isak's eyes—green in the white-grey light from the outside—after something. Anything, actually.

It is as if Isak has his eyes on him, but doesn't see him at all. Merely uses him as a mirror to look inward.

“Then I'll know that I don't like it and try another one.”

Isak leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. Drags his toe over the stone floor. “It'll be expensive if you keep on doing that.”

Even shrugs. "Maybe. But get to figure out what I like," he says, and gets up to go to the counter.

Isak's eyes burn into the back of his neck.

Even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, the queue is quite long. The bartender is talking to some tourists now, guiding them through all the different beers, while two young women in front of are involved in a discussion in Icelandic about what they can afford and whether they should grab something to eat later or if the food is good enough here. Even pretends to let his eyes fly over the blackboard behind the counter.

In the corner of his eye, he can still see Isak. His arms are still crossed over his chest, and he swallows. There are a few red spots on his throat, and he looks embarrassed as he stares out through the window.

The bartender gets ready and serves the two women. He talks with them while he pours two beers, and he seems cordial. One of the women throws a glance at Even before turning to her friend again.

Then she spins her head around and looks straight at him.

She is tall and broad-shouldered. Dark hair frames a smooth, freckled face and one slanted front-tooth shows when she laughs; kind, brown eyes that glow with something deeper as she does.

_Pretty._

Out of pure reflex, he smiles back. And her eyes widen before she looks down; her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheekbones.

The bartender calls for his attention, and Even takes her eyes off her. Grabbing the beer glass and the bottle, he turns around and starts walking back to the table.

It would have been another thing if Isak had been angry. If his eyes had been narrow and his jaw sharp, like it goes when Jón goes too hard at him; pushes and pushes where it's a bit too sore, a bit too close to what Isak can't handle, no matter how much he tries. A suppressed side of Isak that is as fascinating as it is scary.

Anger is something that Even knows he can handle.

Now he's got no idea what to do.

He comes up and puts down the glass and the bottle on the table. It spills over the edge of his glass, but he successfully catches the drop with his index finger while he sits down.

Isak is still staring down at his hands. Fingers at a loose piece of skin by the cuticle, and in the increasingly dulling light, Even watches his jaw work. How it tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes.

“So, want to try mine?”

Isak doesn't answer. Just looks at Even before his gaze moves over to the women at the counter. They're talking to each other, but then the dark haired one looks up and smiles at Even again. Beaming, with her eyebrows slightly raised, she bites a bit in her lip before looking away.

“Did you ask them to come over here, or what?”

The question is quiet. Definitely intended to sting. Even ignores the women at the counter and just looks at Isak again. At his tense jaw and the wrinkle between his knotted eyebrows. Barely noticeable signs, but its still enough for Even to feel his bad conscience sinking in his stomach like a stone.

“No. Why?”

“She's looking at me all the time.”

“She's looking at me, I think.” Even feels a strange sort of nervousness, and takes a big sip of beer. The bitterness bites the back of his tongue, and it has a tar-like texture. “But that doesn't mean that I want them to join us.”

In the corner of his eye, he watches Isak pick up his beer. Watches him put his lips around the neck of the bottle and take a swig.

Under the table, out of sight, a knee slowly, slowly presses up against his.

Even feels it in his entire body, and stops breathing.

Isak is still not looking at him. Just exhales a long breath by his side. It makes a small, whistling noise as it passes through his teeth. It quivers slightly. Just like Isak's thigh does.

It's more a reflex than anything else to put his hand there, in an attempt to still the panicked tremors that play through every coil in the muscles. Even knows that it's impossible to stop them, that like with chattering teeth, the tremors will only get worse the more Isak relaxes.

But he still wants to try. Take some sort of responsibility. Knows that he's probably a catalyst for a want and maybe, perhaps, even a desire that has been simmering in Isak's bones for a while now.

And when Isak takes his eyes off the table and the beer cap, it's a confirmation.

Isak's eyes are inscrutable, but the look they give him can’t really be mistaken for something else. He keeps his eyes fixated on Even, making it impossible for Even to turn his eyes away; impossible to deny that this has happened.

Even's continues to stroke along his thigh. Wipes his sweaty hands on the coarse fabric, and tries to assure Isak that this—the wait, the insecurity, everything—is okay. Continues with the movement until the worst tremors start to subside beneath his palm.

Until the thigh goes still.

“Okay?”

Even cups his hand around the angular kneecap. Feels the protruding knobs against the palm of his hand. Isak nods. Fingers at the cap in front of him again, before he sneaks a nervous look at Even and scoots unnoticeably closer.

When he sees Even's smile, it's as if something drops within him. His shoulders relax, and he smiles back. Red blotches appear on his throat before he lets out a nervous laugh. It's more of an exhale than anything else, but the smile that follows and the shoulder that bumps into his turn it into what it's meant to be.

Even takes him in. Uninhibited. The dimples, the pale freckles, the long dark eyelashes. Can't help but do it, although it's all so big that it feels like the world wants to fit inside him, it doesn't work.

That he’s too small and insignificant to have something so beautiful inside of him.

It doesn't prevent him from trying.

Isak clears his throat. Looks down again, even though something is tugging at his lips. Tugs and pulls; a restrained smile that wants out.

“More than alright.”

They sit in a corner, and after a while, he feels how Isak's hand comes to rest on his lower back. Slowly, and with a cautiousness that speaks of inexperience. The aftershocks of the anxiety are palpable through the fabric of his shirt, but so is the warmth from Isak's arm. Strong. Safe.

And without thinking, Even leans forward. Hit by the impulse that he wants to be enveloped by the scent of Isak, take him in with all of his senses. As unobtrusively as possible, he tilts his head and leans in to nuzzle the tip of nose behind Isak's ear; inhales a breath of sweat, horses and Isak.

Breathes him in instead of kissing him.

Isak pulls back and looks around with wide eyes. “Even, you—”

It’s disappointing when the arm behind him disappears. “Sorry. I just wanted—”

Under the table, Isak puts a hand on his thigh, clinging to it with his nails buried in the thick inseam. “I mean. It's not that I don't want to,” Isak says after a while and looks straight into his eyes. “It's just—” The arm comes back, and a hand squeezes his hip for a short moment. “Not here. It's just—I've never done this before. So.”

“Done what?”

Isak looks away. His gaze flickers until it catches the streetlight outside. He sighs. “Everything, I guess?”

“Nobody knows at home?”

Isak makes a grimace and nods. “No one.”

Even gently shakes Isak’s shoulder, lets his hand stay there a little longer than necessary, before letting it drop down again. “I'm not going to tell. Not that I know who I would tell, but I promise I won't say anything until you want me to.”

 

That, at least, makes Isak laugh. Then, so fast that he almost misses it, Isak fingers come up to play a little bit with the hair at his neck. It causes the hairs on his arms to rise in a strange sort of expectation before Isak slowly retreats.

Looks at him with both eyes, smiling. All warm and soft. “Thanks.”

Even throws a quick glance over his shoulder, then rubs his thumb over Isak's cheek. “No problem.”

They down the two beers, and as soon as they’re ready, Isak orders another one. Even is just about to pick up his wallet and pay for his own, when he feels the car keys against his fingers. He sends an apologetic smile to Isak, who just shrugs and orders one for himself.

He is on his third beer when Jón and Sveinn bring in a gust of cold as they step in through the door. They're talking Icelandic with each other, and when they spot Even and Isak, they come over.

“I see you've made yourself at home,” Sveinn says in Danish while unwrapping his scarf. He pulls out the chair opposite Isak and pats him on the shoulder before he sits gets down. “Have you had a good time in town?”

Isak shrugs. “Can’t complain. How were the horses?”

“I think Jón wants to take a gelding back with him? Incredibly nice tölt, but the trot is weak.” Sveinn turns around when Jón begins to gesture at him by the counter. “It's good for the tour company, though.”

“That's true.”

Jón soon returns and puts the beer glasses on the table. “There we go! Well deserved, this,” he says, raising his glass. Sveinn meets him, and after an encouraging look, Isak clinks his glass with theirs.

He smiles into his beer before taking a sip.

Jón and Sveinn fall into a discussion about how to bring the three new horses back to the farms and Even feels himself drift away. They are deep in conversation, but all he can think of is Isak's thigh against his beneath the table. The shivers from before have faded away, but despite that, he still wants to stroke it with his hand; feel the muscles work beneath his palm, let his fingers trail across the bony knee.

He looks out the window. It's four o'clock, but outside, it has gone quite dark. Night is already upon them.

“It's a long way, yes, but she likes it best in Reykjavik. So, this works for us,” says Sveinn, taking a swig from his beer. “We see each other once a month, and that's all good. Would not force that woman to move up here; she would go stir-crazy.”

Jón shakes his head. “Yes, I just don't know how I'd do this without Eíddunn. What do you think, Even? Your girlfriend's back in Norway, isn't she?”

And that's how it breaks.

His field of vision narrows down to a sliver. The knee that has been pressed up against his all night pulls away at once. Blood roars in his ears. He scrambles for the words, for something, anything to say.

“No—no, we're not together anymore.”

It doesn't fall out of his mouth before Isak has already gotten up and left the table, disappearing towards the toilet.

Jón nods. “Yes, it's not for everyone. But how—”

Even gets up from his chair. “Wait,” he says, and follows Isak through the pub with long steps.

Isak comes out of a stall when Even lets the door shut behind him. The music from the pub seeps in through the gap under the door, and Isak doesn't look at him. Just walks up to the mirror and begins to wash his hands with jerky motions.

A few drops of water fall onto the floor.

Even swallows. His whole body yells at him to turn, run from this situation. But he can't. Isak has his eyes trained on the sink, his shoulders are tense, and even though it had yet to be defined, Even knows there was something there.

Something there, between them that is going to be stretched to its breaking point if he doesn't try to salvage it now.

Isak shuts off the water. Stares at him through the mirror.

Even has never felt this small.

“Is it true?”

The question shoots like a ping-pong ball between the walls, and there is nothing to do. So, he shakes his head.

“No.”

“What isn't?”

Anyone who has ever thought of Isak as shy or a coward has never been on the other end of his dark eyes. “That you have someone, a girlfriend, in Oslo? Or that you don't?”

Even bites the inside of the lip. “That I do. But it's probably over now.”

Something about the way he says it seems to knock the air out Isak. Not enough to lighten the tension inside this small bathroom, but just enough to breathe without hurting with every breath.

“We were together. But, then, things happened here. And I realised that it wouldn't be possible to continue as usual when I got home. We were already drifting apart before I left.”

Isak spins around. Draws in a breath through his teeth, and when he looks up, Even sees that his eyes are bloodshot and blurry. He only had a light beer in addition to what they ordered before, which made the horsemen back at the table laugh.

Now he is happy about it.

Because Isak has had a lot more and seems to have fallen victim to the cascade effect when he stood up.

“What do you mean by 'probably'?”

Even bites his lip. Doesn't mention how everything at home was like living in an aquarium that became smaller as the years passed. Constantly supervised, lots of _shoulds_ and _musts_ , but with less and less space for him to actually move, live. And the people around him who thought he had everything he needed. Despite the fact that he was suffocating, slowly but steadily.

Isak nods when he doesn't answer. “You don't have a backbone at all, do you?”

Then he scoffs. Harsh and cold, and it stings somewhere far inside of Even. Behind the sternum, inside his liver; somewhere, where he hasn't felt anything before.

“No,” Even says, voice low. “I do. And we're going home now.”

 

* * *

 

The headlights are the only light sources for miles. Even heaves a sigh, looks at Isak in the seat next to him, staring into the nothingness. As soon as they got into the car, his anger had died like two fingers closing around a match. Now, he stares in front of him with red-rimmed eyes and looks like he's about to tear a chunk of flesh from the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

Even fiddles a bit with the radio; tunes into a station with Icelandic music, and soft guitar tones fill the Subaru. It's not like there's a risk of crashing or getting into an accident with another vehicle this far from the village. Out here, only farm owners or lost tourists move about, and even they don't pass by more than once a week.

So, no Even doesn't feel guilty that he spends more time watching Isak than keeping his eyes on the road.

Three or four songs, plus an advertising jingle later, Isak turns to him. Not fully: it's just a glance in the corner of his eye before he turns his head and looks at Even with such an intense look that Even knows that now, now he gets to see Isak without any kind of filter.

The alcohol has washed away the fear, and now the aftertaste has peeled off the layer that shielded the anger that has been simmering underneath.

“What do you think you're doing?”

It's a mistake to look away. But even here, in a car, surrounded by darkness which is only broken up by the headlights that glow in the nothingness, he still can't handle it.

“What do you mean, Isak?”

In the passenger seat, Isak squares his shoulder and scoffs. “Don't play dumb. I know you're not stupid, Even.”

“Okay. So which of all the mistakes I've made is the one you're angry at?” he asks, and with a deep breath, he manages to look at Isak thoroughly.

His expression is closed off, though his eyes are sad. It's a tragic combination and Even gets angry at himself, really fucking pissed off because he's let everything come to this.

“You received a postcard from her, Even.”

“Yes.”

“You got a care package from her. You were together when she sent it.”

There's nothing to do but close his eyes against it; hope and pray that nothing shows up on the road now. “Yes.”

Isak draws a breath beside him. “Why—”

“It just happened, okay? It just happened, Isak.”

“That's the worst excuse I've ever heard, Even.”

The air feels so thin. They won't be able to move on from this unless he gives Isak something more. They both know that. It’s come to a point where his apologies are no longer enough. His excuses haven't been enough since he sank down in front of Isak and considered kissing him.

He should have made the call then.

Told Sonja that what they had was over for real.

They’ve spent some lovely years together. It's true. But it’s been a long time now, and he would be lying to himself if he said that the thought of going home after Christmas doesn't turn his stomach. Because he doesn't want to return to her.

And he knows she doesn't want him and his problems back either.

Actually, it's not that complicated; she wants out, and he doesn't want her anymore. Although, they could probably have sex again. There's nothing wrong with their chemistry in that department. It was the thing that drew them to each other from the beginning, the thing that allowed him to love another person. He loved her for a long time but everything else, everything surrounding them, has been left a charred wasteland after what they both went through and endured from each other.

He loved her. But not anymore.

“She—it's been a long time coming.”

And Isak's breath hitches in the passenger seat. It calms him down, just like being calm around the horses also makes them calm down. But Even keeps that thought to himself while Isak's breath returns to normal.

“And it makes the fact that you've been cheating on her ok?” The words could have been harsh, corrosive even. But instead, it just sounds like Isak's bone-tired. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Even?”

And that's the core of it all. Isak doesn't know.

And at the same time, he knows everything.

And it's not like this Even had hoped it would go down. Everything was supposed to be mutual, he was supposed to know Isak—know what to say to make him feel better, know what's the most important thing in his life, know what scares him, what made him leave Norway and come here right after his graduation from high school, what put that hollow-eyed fear in his eyes—before Even chose to expose himself.

Not because he has any problems with people knowing. Not when it comes to ordinary people or managers like Jón and Eídunn. People who may need to know so that he can call in and say that he should try and calm down today; stay inside and maybe keep to the stables because he feels that something is fizzing inside of him like a bottle of carbonated water. Because everything, from the bridles to the coffee pot in the kitchen, sparkles and shines in a way it should not.

Then it's no problem.

But this is Isak.

And Isak doesn't know. It's the charm of being with him. When he's with Isak, Even is no one else but Even. Not Even, the unfaithful, not Even, the dude with bipolar who destroys the lives of the people around him, the Even that attempted to hang himself in his closet—

So, there is only one thing left to say.

An eternity with the Icelandic radio station chatter passes. The beams of the headlights fall on the well-known gravel path leading towards the farm and Even steps a little more on the gas. He just wants to get there. Wants this eternity to end. Wants time to contract instead of elongate and trap them in this unbearable, inevitable moment.

He slams on the breaks, and the darkness engulfs them at once.

“I'm bipolar.”

In the complete silence surrounding them, he can hear Isak's breathing. Hardly audible, but fast, and superficial. And perhaps that says everything, even before any actual words come out.

A part of him is prepared for it. Always steels himself for a reaction that isn't very good. A bad response comes in many different forms: like the one Isak is currently displaying. His eyes go big, the pupils widen and his breath stops.

Then his eyes go dull.

"That's not an excuse. Are you kidding me?"

It's so dark around them. Completely pitch black, in that way it only gets above the Polar circle and far enough from any light pollution that the stars shine as brightly as any street light would.

Still, Even has to shut his eyes for a second.

“Why would I lie about it?” he says, almost inaudible.

Isak shakes his head. He’s pale, and where Even thought he would find anger, he finds something much worse.

“I can't do this, not you too—not fucking again!”

The car door’s torn open, and after leaning back in to grab his jacket, Isak steps out into the night; he walks across the courtyard and rounds the stable. The gangly silhouette has its shoulders drawn up to the ears, until it disappears around the stables.

Only when he's out of sight, does Even unfold himself and get out of the car. The wind from the sea snatches at him immediately, and it's a miracle he doesn't follow, being the empty shell that he is.

On the other side of the stable, Isak slams the front door shut with a bang.

Even rests his forehead against the car door and hates himself.

 

 

 


	2. gravitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the kudos and comments and love you all have shown the first chapter of this fic; it's unbelievable! it means so much ♡ 
> 
> the art was once again done by [anchoram](https://www.instagram.com/anchoram/), who drew not only one but two(!) pieces for this work. go give her some love! 
> 
> and the same short glossary of icelandic horse-related terms can be found in the end notes. me and my lovely assisting translator and beta [mynameisnotthepoint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotthepoint) has worked hard on this chapter, so we really hope you like this too. 
> 
> enjoy! ♡
> 
> (ps. if anyone would like to listen to the same music as i did when i was writing this fic, the album _dýrð í dauðaþögn _by ásgeir trausti is a good place to start!)__

 

Heavy rain whips against the window panes and rouses him from sleep.

The wool blanket across his legs smells sharply of horse. A musky scent that reminds of him of the stable at home, but is still different somehow. The couch is sunken and dirty, and his neck and shoulders ache from having been contorted all night. His joints creak like he's ninety when he sits up and looks across the tack room.

Grey light falls through the window, outlining silhouettes of saddles and bridles; snaffle bits and buckles glimmer in the dawning light.

Even hides his face in his hands. Exhales a trembling breath.

The alarm on his phone has been going off for a while already, and he hurries to press snooze for the second time in a row. The medication reminder flashes at him, and he swallows. Knows he won't take them on time today. Not that it’s a problem taking one or even two doses later than he should. Not anymore, anyway.

The little flashing reminder in the corner still makes his stomach drop

The blister pack is stored away in the kitchen. Located behind the coffee tin in the extension.

Isak is there too.

The couch groans as he moves; it’s not used to people sleeping on it for long periods of time. He searches through the anorak he’s used as an extra blanket to take out a portion of snus. Just to have something to do with his shaking hands.

To prevent himself from thinking about the thing he should actually be thinking about. The thing he’s got to figure out.

Even though he’s lacking the piece that actually determines the outcome of everything.

It had been instinctual to keep quiet about it. Second nature. A part of him had known that they were playing on borrowed time. That it would be over as soon as he went home. That when they got back to Oslo, Isak wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Not if he found out who he really was. Psycho-Even from Bakka.

The one he wanted to escape by coming here.

And there is an odd sort of spiral here. A circle of irony; running headfirst into the shadow that you were trying your hardest to out-run.

There is a slight rustling noise. Through the small rectangular cat flap that Jón has sawn in the door, Ella enters. She studies him with a green eye before she pads over on light paws. Strokes herself against his jeans that are covered in with dirt, cat hair and horse sweat, before she leaps onto his lap.

Even strokes her soft back while she settles. Under his fingers, he feels how soft the black fur is, feels the fragile spine protruding the thin skin. He’s got to gather himself. Can’t cry just because he’s hasn’t slept enough and because the time bomb had gone off.

Right as he was holding it in his hands.

If his conscience had been black and oily before, it's like it's crystallized inside him now. Made him as rigid as the tin man from the wizard of Oz; unable to move because he’s rusted shut in each and every joint. Because that's the cause of everything; that he is so fucking selfish, cowardly, self-absorbed and completely unable to confront anything.

At least not until it's too late.

And sometimes not even then.

His phone vibrates in his hand again when the snoozed alarm goes off for the third time. It causes something to spread inside him. Originates somewhere around his ankles and then expands upwards and turns into a pressure underneath his molars.

And he can’t sit here anymore. He just can’t.

He grabs Ella with one arm and throws off the woollen blanket. Drops the protesting cat on the floor and puts on his anorak, hat and gloves before closing the door to the tack room behind him.

It is still early enough that several of the horses are asleep. Calm, heavy breaths murmur around him as he slowly walks through the quiet and dark aisle; the fluorescent lamps flickering to life where he passes, Ella sauntering behind him. In one of the stalls where the horses stand two and two, Spes has lain her head over Ýr’s withers, snoring. Neither responds when he passes by, and doesn’t notice when he opens the door to Fleyta’s stall.

The blue dun mare studies him as he steps inside.

“Morning, my beautiful girl.” Even combs his fingers through the long, dark mane and brushes away the fringe from her eyes.

Fleyta widens her nostrils, snorting with her sigh. But that's everything.

And that's the reason he keeps coming back, every time.

At first, when he was seven, it was Mum who made him go. He’s always been fond of animals, and before the prejudices dug their claws in, she had made sure that he spent enough time with horses so they’d become an inherent part of who he was—he was tall, film-interested Even who rode horses. Made sure that they were impossible to remove from his life without causing permanent damage.

Which would definitely have been the outcome of such a separation.

Because something about spending time in the stable, made everything easier. When it became increasingly clear that nothing was as it should be, that there was something that  lived within him; something he had to learn to handle so that it wouldn’t corrode him from the inside—the stable stayed, in a way, a neutral place.

A place that temporarily muffled the anxiety that simmered inside him, clattering away at an ever-increasing volume. Turned off the burner for a few hours and allowed him to fill his head with a routine job; clean out stalls, warm icy snaffle bits against the side of his neck, wade through muddy paddocks to fetch stubborn mares or just help little girls mount. But also riding bareback down to the lake in summer and napping with his head in Sonja's lap in the little tack room as she was holding theory lessons because of yet another autumn storm.

It’s always had the association with a calm he’s been unable to find anywhere else.

The spring after it all went to hell—after Bakka and everything else—he almost moved into the stable full-time. Right after it happened, he didn't set a foot in there for months. Didn't dare to. The day he’d finally mustered up the strength to step outside his room, Mum’d wondered if he wanted to go for a ride, and he’d nodded.

At first, they drove around inside the city center, then started moving in larger and larger circles. Just like Dad, Mum had learned not to talk to him by then. Not always. That there was something divine to be found in silence. So, they just drove around and around until they reached the familiar left-turn off of the highway.

It wasn’t a choice, as much as it was something he knew he had to do.

It was in the middle of the day, early in March. He remembers that the snow by the roadside had been mixed with mud. It was before the riding lessons started, but still late enough in the day for some of the horses to have been taken inside. So he’d visited Rota, the old brown mare, and just put his arms over her back.

The Icelandic horse nudged her muzzle against his side, as though she wondered where he had been for the past months. He hadn’t said a word in a week, and hadn’t cried since he left the hospital. But when he stood there—leaning over the mare’s back with his cheek pressed against her brown coat, breathing in the scent of warm horse—it slowly started to saturate, like a developing polaroid, that maybe, somehow, it hadn’t been a mistake.

That there were still things he wanted to do. Things he would have missed out on, if it had been successful.

If the rope hadn’t snapped.

They had stayed for over an hour; Mum waited patiently while he brushed every bit of mud from Rota’s coat, covering his jeans with horsehair and dirt in the process. Rota allowed him to keep at it, without expecting any explanations or answers. He could just groom her and brush out every little knot in her tail until the rest of the world faded away.

Everything, from the noise of the cars on the highway to Mum's worried gaze.

He just stood there, and let himself recharge; let the calm wash over him.

Fleyta nudges at his hip; moves her lips and tries to get a hold of the slider of the zipper to his pocket. He gently pushes her head away, and she snorts. Uses his leg to scratch her head instead, and he scratches her withers in return.

“What should I do?”

Her ears flicker and then she heaves a deep sigh. Even looks up at the roof beams.

“Yeah. I know.”

He leans over her and puts his arms over her back. Her spine is a bit knobby, but her thick, soft winter coat is warm against his cheek. He closes his eyes and turns his head so that the hairs prickle the side of his nose. She smells like warm horse, like safety.

“Okay.”

After what feels like eternity, he stands up straight. Steps out of her stall and closes the door behind him. Then, he squares his shoulders, shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking around the stable to the entrance of the extension.

 

* * *

 

 

Out on the steps, he stops. The wind tugs at the hood of his anorak and the rain whips into his eyes while he looks out over the fjord. It’s raining so heavily that it’s almost impossible to see the horses, huddled in flocks down by the water. He wipes away the rain that has collected on his upper lip and steps inside.

The scent of coffee hits him at once. It permeates the room in a way that it doesn’t usually do, and Even looks around; sees that there is a saucepan simmering on the stove.

Thin, grey-white vapors rise towards the ceiling and into the shut-off cooker hood.

“Morning.”

Isak sits on the sofa with a coffee cup and looks at him; dark circles under his eyes and cradling his mug in a white-knuckled grip. It’s the mustard coloured one, the one that isn’t chipped.

Even swallows. “Hi.”

Isak clears his throat, is about to say something—but then he falls silent.

Even bends down to unlace his boots before he goes over to the stove. In addition to the coffee in the saucepan, there are two fried eggs in the frying pan, and two slices of rye bread laid out on the bench.

All of it looks cold.

The pressure under his teeth feels like it's about to explode. “Why’d you use the saucepan?”

On the sofa, Isak draws a breath. It trembles. “The coffee maker’s broken. Something with the cord.”

“Okay. Is this for me?”

Isak nods. Even fills a cup to the brim and looks out over the part of the fjord that is visible from this window.

“Why—where’ve you been?”

Even turns around: the kitchen counter digs into the small of his back. When he looks at Isak, who’s fiddling with the hole in the couch where there is no button, Even notices that his hand almost disappears into the sleeve of the grey hoodie.

Notices how small he looks.

There is no right place to start here. This is a mess like the Gordian knot, and thinking about it is almost painful. About who caused what and what first got stuck and made this thing between them start to rot.

At the same time, the starting point is obvious.

Because it's like an entrance wound right in the middle of his chest.

“I slept in the tack room.”

It causes Isak's head to perk up. His eyes are green. “It gets cold there.”

“Yeah.”

Even lowers the cup and warms his cold hands against the yellow ceramic. Then he turns around and takes down the blister pack from its place behind the coffee tin. Presses two pills into his palm and swallows them down with a swig of coffee.

It burns all the way down, and it feels like he deserves it.

And yet, it also doesn’t.

“Isak. I know I should’ve said something. It’s no excuse— but I’ve had it all this time,” he says. “I haven’t changed just because you know now.”

Isak opens and closes his mouth a few times before he blurts out: “It's not that—okay. Fine. I know that.”

A part of Even just wants to leave him there. Doesn’t have the energy be the one who always has to educate people on how to behave around him. Make them understand that they had to act differently, but still pretty much the same as with other people. Doesn’t want to be the one with all the answers when he himself hardly knows what he’s doing.

“I got— _was_ drunk and you—” Isak says quickly, more an exhale than a word. He’s unable to meet Even’s eyes anymore, and stares down into his coffee instead. “You still lied to my face. Not about that, but—for fuck’s sake, Even. Do you know how that feels?”

In a way, the words feel worse when Isak is whispering them instead of screaming.

Even crosses the room, walking over the creaking, wooden floor before he can second-guess it. Before all things within him leak out. Before it all leaves him, turns him into a cracked shell, willpower spilling like bloody guts onto the floor. His legs are shaking, and it's too soon, but he can’t stop himself from sinking down on couch, right next to Isak.

In the chilly room, with grey light shattering into prisms across the floor, Isak retreats.

“I—sorry I didn’t tell you about her." Perhaps he’s sitting too close to him, but it doesn’t feel like it matters. The coffee burns his tongue when he takes another sip. "It's essentially over, but—I didn’t want to hurt you. Or her. So—”

“You managed to hurt us both, I think.” Isak lowers his eyes into his mug again; he tilts it methodically, going from left to right and back again.

The coffee laps at the rim in a steady rhythm.

“Probably.” Even swallows, pushes back against the lump that is exponentially growing in his throat. “It wasn’t my intention.”

Isak nods. “No, I don’t think so either. But you still did.”

His eyes are tired, bloodshot like he’s either cried or gone without sleep, but stay steady. Meet Even’s eyes, with a firm and solid sort of determination. After a breath, he slumps. Sinks back into the couch and looks out the window. The sea is living its own life today, and the sheep and horses appear like white tufts on the farthest cliffs.

Then, Isak speaks. Quiet, and almost inaudible, but present.

“My Mum—there’s something wrong with her. We don’t know what, but she sees things no one else does. Hears things. It got worse after the divorce, and when Dad met his new one. So she thinks Dad wants to hurt her and that I’m—I don’t know. The opposite. A godsend. Blessed. Bringer of the rapture. So I have to be kept unblemished and free from sin. Or something."

Silence stretches out between them again. The way Isak looks in the grey light makes his stomach drop. His almost transparent skin, and the faded freckles. The angular jaw, but with eyes that are large and firmly shut.

It is as if the door is not only locked, but permanently bricked up too.

The sum of it all reminds him of sitting on a roller coaster. You know that you can't handle it, but you only realise it just when you’re about to tip over the edge; it’s helplessness to the second power.

Isak's jaw works a bit before he gets up from the couch. “The horses need tending to,” he says, stretching out his hand. First, Even thinks it's to help him off of the couch, and he reaches out his hand for Isak to take.

Something hard passes over Isak's face. And Even realises that it's the coffee mug he's asking for.

He swallows, tries to hide his shame. “Yeah. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

 

* * *

 

 

The following week passes in a blur. The weather fluctuates between rain and snow and back again, but the temperature steadily drops in time with the waning sunlight. Eístla’s tölt improves, and when Even shows her off to Jón in the corral on the hill, he gets a broad smile and a pat on his shoulder as he dismounts.

He and Isak say no more than is strictly necessary to each other.

Isak has retreated back into himself. He’s silent, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows is a permanent fixture in his face. Carved into his skin.

Even doesn’t know what to do.

They are tasked with going on a shorter trip with some of Sveinn's clients, because Sveinn himself has caught the flu. The ride goes well; the clients are a bunch of happy Swedish women in their forties who have been riding their entire lives. In the end, all they have to do is show them the way, and gallop along the water before they can drop them off at Sveinn’s again.

It’s a chilly, bright November day with a taste of snow in the air. The sea is calm. When Fleyta exhales, her breath puffs out like little clouds, and from the northern shore, the sea is open. It’s as if you’re able to glimpse the edge of the world; nothing obstructs the view, nothing lies in the way.

No fence to be seen.

Even feels like an idiot.

Every time he tries to open his mouth, Isak sends him a brief glance. It’s hard as stone; there’s nothing else for Even to do but to smile sheepishly and look down again. It's not that he doesn’t understand why. Pieced together from what Isak’s said, it appears that he’s still in the closet. And quite deep in, too, it seems. It’s not like Even himself is completely out, but those that matter know. His parents. Sonja. A few people from Bakka, and the people from his therapy group.

But he’s never been as scared as Isak is.

And now, he has caused Isak to slam the closet door shut on his own fingers; caused him to lock it with them still stuck in the slit.

All because Even couldn’t do things in the right order.

They’ve taken a detour along the northern shore to let the horses calm down; the volcanic stones rattle around Ýr’s hooves. The sun is setting rapidly, and Even collects Fleyta a little more when she tries to step her hind legs into the water. She probably thinks their pace is too slow, although she just raced with several of Sveinn's geldings, and they’re all more powerful than her. Not necessarily bigger—she is one of Jón's tallest horses, together with Ýr and Fagrí—but she’s lanky. Just like he is.

Then Fleyta takes a step in the opposite direction. It's not much, but it's enough for his knee to knock into Isak’s.

Immediately, Isak makes Ýr step away with a sudden leg-yield. The waves’ white foam gathers in her feathers.

Isak’s jaw is tense. His eyes in the shadow below the helmet’s screen isn’t. They’re not visible as the setting sun makes the shadows longer than himself, but Even wishes he could see them.

“Stop it.”

Even stops. Fleyta moves her head, but when he takes the reins again, she calms down. Doesn’t snort, but restlessly moves her front legs. She’s anxious, as if he’s bleeding nervous energy into her.

“It wasn’t on purpose. She took a step before I—”

“You know what I mean. Stop it.”

Even looks at him Isak. Another wave rolls in, and the roar of the blood rushing in his ears almost hurts.

“I know you're angry, Isak. Okay? But I actually don't know what you're talking about now."

“Stop touching me. I can’t—” Isak releases the reins so that Ýr’s able dip her muzzle in the cold, grey-black water. He looks out over the sea, at the setting sun, and then he heaves a sigh so deep that even his shoulders drop down when his lungs empty out.

“Have you broken up with her?”

It's like a dagger is pushed straight into his ribs. It would be so easy to lie again; to continue on the same track as before and just let the least hurtful thing roll off his tongue. Say what the person next to him wants to hear.

Never mind that it never ends well.

He swallows. “No. Not yet.”

“So stop it." Isak draws in a breath. “I mean it.”

There’s something stiff in Isak’s voice, but the last word subtly breaks. As if he’s going through puberty again, where nothing is under control. Neither voice nor the teenage emotions that leak out of you like a sieve. When you’re at your most vulnerable.

It takes a lot of strength to look up from the front of the saddle, where the worn leather meets Fleyta's flat withers; just where the dorsal stripe peeks out from under her mane. But he succeeds, and meets Isak's eyes, even though they are shrouded by the long shadows.

“Right.”

Isak gathers Ýrs reins and pulls her back from the water's edge. He lets her walk up to Fleyta, lets the two mares greet each other, smell and blow into each other’s ears.

Then he lets his eyes come back from the water, and sighs.

“Make a choice and stick with it.”

Without another word, he nudges his calves against Ýr’s flanks. The mare reacts right away, falls into a tölt so soft that it appears as if Isak isn't moving on her back; as if he is floating away, all while the advancing darkness obscures them.

Even looks after him, watches as he gets smaller and smaller in the distance.

And then, when the first snowflakes start to fall, he makes Fleyta follow them.

 

* * *

 

 

Behind the extension, he’s sheltered from the wind. The rain falls sideways, but the droplets are small and soft against his hands that are fiddling with his phone. The battery is at fifty per cent, and he spins it between his fingers.

The steps are cold under his thighs. It makes his brain quiet down for a moment.

Without thinking about it, he opens the contact list. Scans the three most used, then taps her name.

Sonja.

Calls before he can regret it, even if it feels like a burst of alternating current surges through him. Coldness and warmth swirl inside him, blending slowly, while he looks into her blue eyes in the contact picture. Taken at home, sitting on his windowsill, on a summer day three years ago.

The screen lights up, and he puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello? Even, are you there? Even!”

He hears it, muffled, like through thick fog. He clears his throat.

“Hi.”

She sighs. “Did something happen?” she asks, her voice sharp, but with some sort of softness underneath.

The fjord is dark grey; the water, the clouds, the cliffs and the ground. An even, smooth grey. An impermeable wall of water, moisture and light.

“No, not really. How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

“Why haven’t you replied to my messages?”

An old but familiar flash of irritation passes through him, but he wards it off. Focuses on the single droplet that falls from the hood of his anorak and lands on his nose. Feels how it runs off the tip of his nose and lands on his chin.

“It's busy here.”

She hums. “Yeah. I imagine. A lot of work with the horses?”

“Yeah. But, I'm sorry.”

“Mm.”

It goes quiet. Through the phone he hears her breathing. Long, deep breaths that can only be produced by swimmer’s lungs. It’s been a long time since she’s last set foot in a pool, but the few times they went together, he was always so fascinated by how fluidly she moved in the water; as though she was born for it, really. The little Mermaid; she had swapped her fins and voice for feet that hurt with every step so she could stay with him. Lacking balance on land.

And now, he doesn’t even want her anymore. And it’s not fair.

He clears his throat. “Sonja.”

“Yes, Even?”

“I don’t want to treat you like this anymore."

Silence. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t reply to your messages, and you feel that you have to send them. Feel like you have to keep track of me. It's not— I don’t want you to feel that it's just about me all the time. You need to live your life, too. Be free to do what you want.”

“Even.” She sounds tired. Not twenty-two years old. “It's not about you. Are you sure that nothing’s happened? You haven’t—done anything to yourself?”

Something cold trickles down his neck and inside his shirt; tightens. “Sonja. _No_ ,” he bites. “This is—just me. Just Even. The usual.”

She stays silent then, for a long time. There’s been too much of this between them for the past year. Too much of that coarse silence, one that isn’t filled with something else, but simply that which silence by definition is: a lack of sound.

“Are you trying to do what I think you are?”

“Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t think we should stay together.”

“But—you have to understand, I can’t leave you, Even,” she says sharply, though he can hear the invisible lump in her throat. He has heard her voice in his head and in reality for so many years now that he just knows what the hitch is. "You realise that I can’t. I can’t—” She interrupts herself. “No. I won’t.”

He swallows; a dusty, superannuated tenderness springs forth when she snivels.

“Hey. Sonja. You can. It’s okay.”

“No, Even. I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can. I'll be fine. And don’t keep doing this for my sake, okay? I’ve got Mum. And Dad. You can let go now.”

“But I loved you,” she says quietly, thickly, and he knows she's crying.

He wipes away the hot, salty drops that are gathering in the corner of his eyes. “I know. Me too.”

“This is really low of you. Seven years, and you end it over the phone.” There’s still a sharpness there, but he can hear that she is smiling a little, too.

“I'm not good at taking the high road just because I'm tall.”

“Don’t you dare make a joke now,” she says, but she laughs anyway. It's a nice sound; pearlescent and mostly composed of air. Still it manages to dissolve the tacky and black mess coating the inside of his chest.

“Sorry. I won’t.”

“Good.”

The rain increases slightly; clatters against the small protruding roof above him in a way that resembles an airstrike. “I won’t see you when I get home, then,” he says.

“No, I suppose you won’t.”

“Okay. But thank you. I want to tell you that, anyway. Hope you don’t hate me too much.”

“I don’t hate you, Even,” she sighs. “Never will.”

It causes something to blossom in his chest. "Neither do I."

She laughs at. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Sonja? Take care.”

She is silent for a long time on the other end of the line; draws her mermaid breaths before she says:

“Goodbye, Even.”

She is the one to hang up. Something he’s very happy with. Because it's like his fingers no longer want to cooperate. His body rejects all attempts at movement, no matter what he tries to do.

So he sits there, on the stairs, in the ever-increasing downpour.

Soon, he starts to shiver from the cold. He puts the cell phone in his pocket and steps inside again. It's quiet, besides the buzz from the cooker hood that’s been running since breakfast. Even turns it off, and puts his anorak on one of the forgotten hangers.

When he’s about to enter the bathroom, he hears a sound drifting over from Isak's room. And it's not a choice as much as an instinct that makes him stop right outside the door. First, it sounds like the rap music he sometimes hears in the mornings, as Isak uses it as his alarm—but then he realizes that it’s Isak’s voice.

“—hear that, Magnus, but are you free to talk for a bit?”

It goes quiet, and Even feels that he's holding his breath. Knows that he should make his feet move forward, further, leave this behind. But talking to Sonja has rendered him unable to control his own body; as if her grip has made him unable to handle his physical form now that she’s let go.

Then Isak's voice is audible again.

“Okay. No, it’s won’t take long. Could you send me your Mum’s number? No, nothing special, and it's not to plan some kind of surprise party for you. Fuck off, your birthday was last month. Belated happy birthday, by the way. No, I’m just calling to ask her about a thing. You keep an eye on those kindergarteners instead. I don’t want be responsible for any deaths. Good. Bye.”

A light thud, probably a phone hitting a lumpy mattress. And then a deep, bone-tired sigh,  like Isak empties his entire lungs in one breath.

Even looks down to his sock-clad feet; his face is burning and he suddenly feels like an intruder. He takes the two steps into the small bathroom and locks the door. The fluorescent light flickers. He avoids his reflection as he splashes his face with hot water.

Sometimes, it's simply too much to see yourself looking back at you.

 

* * *

 

 

The snowstorms keep rolling in, one following the other the next few days. It's almost impossible to be outdoors, so training on the road isn’t happening. The only thing left to do is to train the horses that can be ridden in the riding stables, or the little round corral that’s been placed in the middle of them.

Eístla is all but ready for sale, so Even spends as much time with her as he can. Even though Jón’s told him to train Samherji—the big, calm gelding they brought home when they were at the auction— he can’t help but to slip a bridle over her head and lead her down to the riding stables.

She’s gotten used to him now, unlike the stubborn thing she had been in the beginning, when he had first been assigned to her. She stands still when he gets onto her. Without the adrenaline boost caused by thirty escaped horses, it’s slightly harder to gracefully sit up on her back without a saddle.

It's not difficult, but the front of his Icelandic sweater gets covered in light grey hairs.

Eístla stays calm while he gets into places, and then they take a few turns in the stables.  She has put on some muscle since the first time, and without the saddle, it’s noticeable when she’s loose and connected to the bit.

He has slowed down from tölt when the door to the riding stables opens, creaking loudly. And then Isak and Spes step out.

“Oh. There you are.”

Eístla stops at the sound of his voice, and Even looks down at his hands. “Am I in the way?”

“No. I—I actually need help lunging her. But Eídunn’s busy, so she told me to ask if you could help.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Even’s dismount is as smooth as the mount, and he does his best not to look at Isak afterwards. Not that it really matters: Isak has made it clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with him at all. And although he’s not with Sonja anymore, it doesn’t feel right to think that Isak’d still be interested.

Not after this. Not with all the things that comes with him.

As he unclasps the bridle, Even gently scratches Eístla’s forehead. She snorts, but when he pats her flank she starts walking with slow steps around the stables.

“Want me to do the lunging, or—?”

Isak nods, and swings the lunge in his hand back and forth. “Yeah. She’s struggling with left canter, so we’ll see what we can do. Help her out a little.”

Even nods, and holds the lunges that Isak gives him to so that he can heave himself over the edge of the round corral. It's bitterly cold today, as it has been since last night when the snow arrived, after the rain had fallen with such force that Even thought it would leak through the roof.

That didn’t happened.

Isak opens the corral from within, and Even leads Spes inside. She’s disobedient, and would like to follow Eístla instead. Even almost has to drag her into the corral, unyielding as she is. It's not until Isak uses his voice that she actually enters far enough that Even can close the door behind her.

Attaching the lunges to the cinch, Even breathes while Isak mounts from the other side. It’s all that he can do. Isak is sitting right there, his knee is two centimeters from Evens nose, and it would be so easy to just stroke his hand over his thigh again.

And then say what Isak wants to hear. What Even wants to say, too.

“You done?”

Isak's voice draws him back out of his mind, and Even corrects the last buckle. “Now. And it’s left canter?”

Isak nods and takes the reins on the rope halter he’s put around Spes’ head.

“Left canter.”

Even squares his shoulders and takes the long lunging whip lying in the middle of the coral. “Let’s go then.”

It's not until he's actually on this side of her, that Even understands how hard Isak has worked with Spes. Not because she’s lazy, but she is not the sharpest. It’s nothing like working with Fleyta, who’s a little too intelligent for her own good and with whom you have to be on the alert at all times —  or even Eístla, who just lacks coordination.

Working with Spes is like trying to run through mud.

She is so willing, and tries to do what Isak asks of her. Her ears are tuned to him, always listening, trying to interpret the signal. But somewhere along the way, something goes wrong; as if something is missing in the connection between Isak's legs and her brain.

After the fifth failed canter, Even makes her come to a halt. Isak sighs towards the ceiling, letting the reins drape over Spes’ withers. His breath forms small clouds in the cold air.

The lunging reins feel heavy in Even’s hands.

For a while, the only the sounds are the storm outside and Eistla’s slow steps in the far end of the riding stables. Isak's eyes are still studying the roof beams. Then he nods; shakes off whatever train of thought he’s gotten stuck in. “Right. One more time.”

“Certainly.”

Even picks up the reins again, and is about to get Spes to fall into a tölt again, when there is a knock on the door to the riding stables.

“How are you doing in here?”

The Icelandic sounds bright and clear, causing both Spes and Eístla to turn their ears towards Eídunn’s melodic voice.

Isak clears his throat. “One horse loose, and one in the round corral.”

The plywood board acting as a door scrapes against the floor when it’s pushed open. Then, Eídunn enters the riding stables. She’s wrapped up in a big parka, and her bright blue eyes get crow’s feet in the corners when she spots them.

“So that’s what you’re busy with! How is it going?”

Even tosses a look up when Isak doesn’t respond right away. Then Isak shrugs. “It’s coming along.”

Eídunn nods “We won’t sell her until you feel she's ready. We’d lose money on that.” She winks and smiles at Isak, “Do you think she can join the tour tomorrow?”

She throws a glance at Even, but his tongue won’t move. Isak looks down again. The fingers play with Spes’ mane, and Even swallows; loosens his tongue.

“She has a lot of willpower, but Isak has to decide. I —”

Eídunn waves her hand. “It's an easy ride, so she can just run along. We’re not going up into the mountains, really. So, if you’re unsure, try it out, and otherwise, she’ll just run along with the string,” she says, looking up at Isak with a big smile. “What do you think?”

Isak sends Even an ambiguous look before he nods. “That should work”

“Wonderful.” Eídunn reaches one hand through the bars to pat Spes’ neck. Swiftly and lightly. “Then that’s settled. And when you're done, there's dinner down at the house, if you’d like.”

It's like they’ve unspokenly agreed to not look at each other. Isak looks towards the door and Even focuses on Eístla, who’s scratching her head against the wall. The scratching sound travels through the wooden wall all the way to where round corral is.

Eídunn looks between them, before she snorts. “What’s up with you two? Did someone burn the coffee this morning?”

“No, it’s nothing.” Isak shakes his head, but the wrinkle between Eidunn's eyebrows remains, and Isak sighs. “Just. I talked with my dad earlier today. And it's always a bit — “

He shrugs and tilts his head from side to side. “Something like that.”

Eídunn drapes her arms over the edge of the round corral. She is short enough that they barely reach over the edge. “Hmm. Fathers, am I right?” she says, and squints a bit at the old fluorescent lights fixed into the ceiling. “Anyways: food’s on the table in an hour. Show up if you’d like some.”

She pats Spes one last time before she heads back out, lets the plywood board fall shut with a dull thud.

“One more time?” Even asks.

Isak doesn’t answer at first. Just watches Eíddunn disappear, before he shakes his head. "No. That’s enough. She’s exhausted,” he says, dismounting easily.

With that, there is not much else to do than to pack up and head back to the stables. Even puts Eístla in the aisle, while Isak takes care of Spes in one of the stalls.

As they brush their horses clean, Isak’s head keeps popping up over the edge of the stall. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, Even can’t help but look at him. Look at something that could have been. Despite knowing nothing is going to come from it.

That it’s simply too late for that.

 

* * *

 

The tourists joining the trail ride arrive at nine in the morning.

It's raining. The snow from yesterday lies in wet heaps around the courtyard. Even is leaning on the gate, and Isak has climbed up on it, beating his heels against the metal bar with an inherent rhythm that rattles through Even’s entire body.

He doesn’t tell him to stop.

The group consists of two Dutch women, and what seems to be an equally horse-enthused grandfather. Jón greets them, and Even plasters on a genuine smile, before he goes off to fetch Ósk. As usual, she’s all curious, and wants to nudge him with her muzzle when he’s tightening the cinch that last notch.

Everyone is reasonably experienced, so the others mount quickly. The only mishap is when Isak has to help one girl when the strap of one of the stirrups breaks.

Even leads Ósk around the edges of the string, making sure that the loose horses keep calm while they wait. Stays on the other side of the courtyard, separated from the other riders. Yet, he still notices the Dutch girl laugh and smile wide when Isak lets her rest her thigh on his shoulder.

She’s cute.

In a way, this must’ve been what Sonja felt, those times when she got all wound-up after a party. Not because she was immature, had a low self-esteem, or thought they were in any danger. But sometimes, a slightly younger and more insecure side of her took over. Some part of her she had to push aside, to allow for the mature and responsible part occupy the space she thought it needed for her to take care of him.

It hadn’t been right, of course, but it hadn’t prevented her from suppressing what she felt.

Warning lights on the dashboard, she had said when they were lying in his bunk bed once. Anger, disappointment, and all of those dark and sticky feelings that alert you that something is wrong, that you’re not getting your needs met. Whether it's security or the need for intimacy, such strong or unpleasant emotions need to be taken care of.

You have to feel them, let them take up space inside you, and then fix whatever caused them in the first place.

And when Even sees the Dutch girl laughing with big, round eyes, and Isak grins back, something in his chest illogically twists. Ósk comes to a halt under him, and Isak looks up. His dark eyebrows rise, and Even forces himself to smile back.

With this distance, it doesn’t show how much of a grimace it actually is.

When the girl's stirrup is fixed, they take off along the road. It's a four-hour trail ride, one way, and they have six horses to swap between. The mist lies thick over the mountains, but on the road in front of them, the view is clear.

Even breathes the clear air deep into his lungs, while Ósk tölts away under him. She is delicate, even smaller than Fleyta, but with an unmatched willpower. Occasionally it feels like she’s using too much energy to keep up with Eídunn, who’s riding on Uplyfting, a flying pace racing mare.

Behind him, there’s some commotion. Without turning around, he listens to Isak giving short, clipped commands to Spes, who doesn’t seem to be in the mood to cooperate today.

Even swallows and keeps his eyes on the road ahead of them.

After two hours, they come to a stop at one of the pastures. Take off snaffle bits and saddles then catch the next horse for re-saddling. It always takes a bit, but at the same time it’s something that Even wouldn’t change for anything else in this world—the fact that there is no such thing as stress here.

Everything is done at the horses’ and sheep’s pace. If you want to move faster, the world will refuse to follow.

“Even.”

He turns around. Isak has dismounted and is holding his saddle in his hands. Eístla stands just behind him, and breathes loudly into his ear. He doesn’t seem to care. “Yeah?”

“Can you get over here? I think something’s stuck in Samherji’s hoof.”

Even unclips the stirrups from the saddle and drapes them over his shoulder. They didn’t bring any tools, but at the same time, he understands that Isak doesn’t want to make this decision on his own. It’s not his horse, and Even has been here longer than he has. So Even follows him to the girl from earlier who has been riding Jón's newest horse.

She’s dismounted and is looking down at the gelding’s right front leg.

“He stumbled when we were on the road, so I got a bit worried,” she says. Even nods, and pats the horse’s neck. The skin nearly vibrates under his hand, and the ribs move in and out at a rapid pace.

“Right front leg?”

She nods, and lets Isak take the reins. Even strokes one hand along the leg and then puts the hoof against his thigh.

The damage is noticeable right away. A bit into the fleshy part of the hoof, on the left side of the beam, a sharp stone’s dug into the flesh. There’s a bit of blood trickling from it. How it got there is a mystery, but Even doesn’t dwell on it. Just tries to focus on fixing this. Takes one glove off with his teeth and gently tries to wedge his fingernail under the pebble.

Right away, Samherji’s entire body locks up, so Even gives up at once.

Instead, he reaches out an arm behind his back. “Isak. Did you bring a hoof pick? And the antiseptic cream.”

“Let me check.”

Isak and the Dutch girl exchange a few words in English, and soon, Even feels cold metal at his fingertips. It is a bit warmer than it should be, and the plastic has begun to loosen from the handle.

He throws a look over his shoulder. Isak looks back with unreadable eyes. Even turns his head away. Stares down at the bleeding hoof on his knee.

The one thing he has some semblance of control over.

“Hold him still.”

Isak gently pats the gelding’s neck, and the dull sound of glove against horse skin is enough to know that Isak will hold Samherji in place.

“Ready.”

With a determined motion, Even wedges the pick beneath the pebble, and prize it away.

Immediately, Samherji jerks his leg up, and Even takes a big step backwards so he isn’t thrown on his back from the force. Isak has put one hand on the withers, using his voice to calm Samherji down from where the gelding’s trying to rear onto his hind legs. The whites are showing in his eyes, his nostrils flutter, but eventually Isak manages to grab his head and calm him down.

The Dutch girl looks on, her worry showing through the wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I won’t be riding him anymore, will I?” she says, voice cautious.

“No.” Even shakes his head. “He might be able to follow us all the way back, but I think we’ll leave him here for the day. To make sure that he gets some rest. You've chosen your other horses, right?”

She nods.

“Tell Jón and Eídunn what happened, and Jón’ll help you choose one who’s strong enough to go for two marches.” Even points to where Jón and Eídunn are helping the others mount. “We’ll take care of Samherji for you.”

Dutch girl nods and smiles. “Thank you,” she says, before she disappears.

Even throws a glance over his shoulder. With careful motions, Isak makes quick work of searching for more injuries; strokes with quick, light hands over the gelding’s legs and neck to look for further cuts. Obviously finding none, he lifts the hoof again and puts on a layer of antiseptic cream.

Then he gently takes the bridle of Samherji’s head, puts it over his shoulder and walks towards Even.

Even swallows when Isak stops in front of him.

“My hoof pick”?”

It’s burning in his hand, but he holds it out anyway. Isak's eyes are still unreadable, and Even’s stomach drops again. The skin of Isak's fingers brushes where he’s holding the handle. Even swallows again, but it doesn’t help. Instead, there’s something in his throat, clogging it up; an uneasy, trembling confession that he can’t inhibit before it’s fallen out of his mouth.

“I—I broke up with Sonja.”

Isak widens his eyes. His jaw twitches too, but that’s all.

There’s a pressure under Even’s skin, like the entire universe wants to fit inside of him, but he can’t handle it, not without hurting, no matter how hard he tries.

“What—what do you think about that?”

The persistent cold in the air creeps through his anorak. A bead of sweat, chilled by the fast gallop, drops down the back of his neck. His body vibrates from within; his skeleton has been electrified and the vibrations spread like sound waves through his muscles and his skin as they grow longer and longer, only to fade away from the audible spectrum.

Isak looks down at his riding boots. Shrugs.

“I don’t know. What do you want me to say?"

His eyes are hard, and Even looks away, down at the frosted grass. Tries to block out the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, waiting to overpower him.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No, I mean—I don’t want you to think or say anything specific. Say what you want. Anything.”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “Okay.”

The air is ripped straight out of his lungs time and time again, but Even still think he hears a shadow of a smile in Isak’s voice. If he wills it into existence. Which, in itself, is a sign that there’s nothing there.

Even clears his throat. “I just wanted you to know.”

He looks at Isak for as long as he dares; looks at the mouth that sharpens around the edges, the dark eyes and the light tuft of hair sticking out from under his beanie.

Even opens his mouth—and Jón's whistle cuts through everything.

“Mount, boys, or we're taking off without you!” he shouts, with a strength that causes them both to jolt.

Even saddles Fleyta and sits up, while Isak catches Ýr, and soon they’re on their way again, with the string of horses tölting around them.

They end up in the back, while Eídunn takes the lead together with the tourists and Jón. It would have been a good opportunity to catch Isak’s eyes and lighten the burden of what lies thick and clogging between them, but his head is all empty. No ideas, nothing.

Not even a joke that could break the ice. It feels like a defeat; a loss.

And not just for himself.

He chooses to stay a little in front of Ýr and her laboured breath. Fleyta wants to fall back, but he drives on until she obeys, keeping up. He can’t handle looking at Isak right now. Not when Isak is this closed off, and it's impossible to even fathom what he's thinking.

Not when Even doesn’t know how much hurt he caused.

The darkness closes like a fist around them when they finally return to the courtyard; tired, cold but with happy clients and horses. The wind is properly howling when they’re dismounting outside the stable, so Jón and Eídunn are quick to show the tourists to the guest house.

“Take the horses that ran today to the stables, and the rest down to the paddocks. The usual ones from the paddocks should be in the stables too,” Jon shouts over his shoulder before he disappears down the slope: towards the house and the guest house.

The sleet whips them in the face as they lead the ridden horses into their stalls and then go down to the paddocks to fetch the rest. After herding every day for almost five months, Even can safely say he won’t miss it when he returns home. With weather this stormy, the horses just want to stand huddled against the gusts of wind, and making them walk in the direction you want can take up to ten minutes.

Isak blows on his hands as they walk along the path, the horses tölting in front of them. He’s wearing his riding gloves for once, he who always insists on riding without them. They’re still too thin for this weather.

Putting his hand in his pocket, Even fumbles until he feels the fabric of his finger gloves against his thumb. Without saying a word, he nudges Isak with his elbow and holds them out.

“Here.”

Through the darkness Isak looks at him with an inscrutable look. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Take them.”

The sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs is in crescendo; blowing up cascades of water in time with the steadily increasing wind. Down the slope, the light in Jón and Eídunn’s house is switched on.

Isak takes the gloves. “Thank you,” he says with a nod.

Even studies every movement as he puts them on, and the pressure in his chest eases somehow; the wound in his chest is closed again, at least for a while.

“No problem.”

 

* * *

 

He spends all morning treating the bridles and saddles used for yesterday’s ride with oil. The equipment is often reused on several different horses, so you have to take even better care of everything to make it last. It should be washed with soap at least once a week, and then treated with oil every month.

It's a never-ending job, and it’s not helped by Ella peeking lazily at him from her perch on the backrest; purring so loud he can feel it.

When his fingers begin to cramp from trying to access all the nooks, he hangs up the last bridle on the right hook. Sunshine filters in through the salt-sprinkled window, the rays making shapes on the floor. Ella jumps down from the sofa and curls up in the middle of a beam of sunlight, and something about the way she bends her paw to shield her eyes from the light makes him stand up and go out into the courtyard.

The November air is bright and crisp, but doesn’t sting his throat. The sun has broken through the clouds and its rays sparkle in the frost-clad grass; they’re reflected by the slippery mud on the path leading to the round corrals. Luckily, the soles of his riding boots still have a good grip on the ground.

Halfway up the road, Even stops: looks out over the paddocks and the bay. The horses and sheep move like dots along the beach. The horses’ manes whip in the wind, and some are scratching each other’s backs.

For a second, he becomes incredibly aware that he exists.

That he’s alive.

It’s not something that he often takes the time for, although it’s definitely something that the therapist at home reminds him to do; the importance of spending time on it and remaining in the present. He leans against one of the posts and breathes in the cold air. It prickles the inside of his nose, almost burns, and somewhere, in his core, something loosens.

As if it will be alright in the end.

Isak’d made coffee this morning. Hadn’t just poured it into a thermos and thrown two sandwiches together to eat after the first ride, but had taken the time to sit down. They hadn’t talked, but the silence hadn’t been rigid or strange.

Even had even dared to look at him. In that way that so many people find unsettling—your eyes are so bottomless it’s seriously unpleasant, Even—but Isak hasn’t said anything about it.

Not even now.

It definitely feels like he burned the bridge that once connected them. Destroyed the chance that something would come of the tension that was like a stretched rubber band between them just a week ago. But just because one is gone, doesn't mean they're all burned.

Or that he can’t build a new one.

In fact, Isak has stirred up too much within him, gotten something to move within him again. A rolling movement that, once it’s set in motion, can’t be stopped. Not even by Isak. And the thought of returning home, to Oslo, and never seeing him again is enough to make Even nauseous.

He can’t control Isak. Can’t control anyone, just as much as he doesn’t want to be controlled himself. But at the same time—

Perhaps the only thing to do is to tell him what he wants; that he’ll be content with whatever Isak’s willing to give him.

Even if that means they’ll never touch each other again.

Down by the beach, something has spooked the horses. Before Even finds out what it is, they have all begun running. Hooves thunder against the ground, and it's something magical, still, to see them race across the grey shoreline and the glittering water.

When his knees start to hurt from the stubborn wind, he turns and begins the climb towards the round corrals. The small one is empty, save from a stepping stool and the snow the wind has gathered into drifts. Several big snow drifts are huddled in the middle of the big corral.

Most have been stomped down by now, so they don’t give Isak any problems.

His cheeks are red. Although he must’ve been out here since Even went into the tack room, he doesn’t look tired or cold. At first it seems strange. Then Even sees what it is that makes Isak oblivious to the negative eight degrees wind chill.

Spes has mastered leg-yielding.

She's still in the stage where she has to use her entire brain to think, so it's not going fast. But as Jón told him that first time he handed Isak the reins, she’s a mare who wants to please. And it seems like Isak has managed to work with that trait, where he helps her with gentle, yet clear and educational aids through the lateral and forward exercise.

It's not fast, but it's correct.

As soon as she’s taken one step, Isak slackens the reins to let her rest. And then it continues.

Even doesn't move from his position halfway up the hill. Just looks on, with all his senses, at the wrinkle between Isak's eyebrows as he’s concentrating as hard as Spes to make her do what he wants. In the end, Isak seems satisfied, pats her neck and lets her calm down to a simple walk.

He is sitting with his eyes closed, the sun like a ribbon across the bridge of his nose, his breath clouding in the air.

Even turns back, before Isak spots him at all.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, a woman from Hveragerði arrives to buy Spes.

Isak does everything as usual; helps with feeding, herding of the horses, and also takes Uda for a spin in the corral before returning to the stable. As it gets closer to ten o’clock, Even watches how he draws closer towards the open stable door. At the right angle, you can see the entirety of the paddock closest to the stable from there.

The paddock where Jón is lunging Spes to show her off.

Even continues to groom Fleyta with distracted movements. Strokes her clean coat with a dandy brush as he peeks towards the open stable door. Isak hasn’t moved from his spot, watching as Jón and Spes exit the paddock and the door to the trailer opens.

“Isak! Won’t you come and say goodbye?”

Jón's voice carries all the way to the stables, and Even sees how Isak's shoulders tense up. “No, it’s—”

“Come on now! You worked a lot with her. It creates a bond.”

There’s a wariness that spreads through him when Isak disappears out the door and onto the courtyard. From inside Fleyta's box, it’s impossible to see the trailer, so after patting Fleyta on her rump, signalling his leaving, Even goes into the aisle. Takes a broom from one of the hooks in the wall to make it look like he’s actually doing something useful, and then walks quietly until he can see around the stable doors.

Jón is having a conversation in Icelandic with the buyer, while Isak is combing his hands through Spes’ mane. The little brown mare stands all still. And if Even didn't already know what Isak looked like when he was sad, he wouldn’t have been able to tell anything was different from his schooled expression. Now, though, the corners of his mouth that are pulled downwards, the eyes that are fixated on his hands; the way he wipes his nose without sniffling.

The way he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, as if he’s trying to make a cut deep enough that it shows from the outside.

Even doesn’t know for how long he stands there, watching. He doesn’t retreat until Isak shakes hands with the woman. She smiles, and Isak gives her a short nod. Then he begins to walk back across the courtyard, hands pushed deep into his pockets.

Heart beating in his chest, Even sneaks back into Fleyta's box. He manages to hide behind her at the same moment that Isak comes back; he blocks the light from the open stable doors for a second. With a deep sigh, he pulls down his beanie over his ears, then leans against one of the boxes’ doors just inside the entrance.

He swings it back and forth, mindlessly, and watches how the trailer gets smaller and smaller; turns around a corner and disappears. The rain has stopped a while ago, and the sun is tentatively peeking through the clouds.

The light reflects in the puddles formed in the gravel.

Even leans over Fleyta's box door on the other side of the aisle. “How are you?”

Isak sniffs a few times and wipes his hand under his nose. “It's just stupid. I knew they’d sell her. I couldn’t bring her home. Not enough space. Or time.”

The keywords are well-known: _should, knew, stupid_. Even shrugs. “Just because you know something doesn’t mean it can’t feel like the opposite is true,” he says. “If so, then everyone would be rational all the time, and you can’t be rational all the time.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” Even knows he shouldn’t, but he continues while he picks up the broom to try and clean up the aisle. “If you make nothing but rational decisions, eventually, you’ll not be rational anymore.”

Isak snorts, but then he smiles again. “Explain.”

“So.” He stops sweeping and leans against the broom. “Purely philosophically speaking, something is logical when it’s consistent with one's arguments, or the one decision that is the best. But if you don’t even know what is best for you, then, eventually, you can’t tell what’s the best anymore. Everything depends on the context. So, you can’t be rational all the time. Sometimes, you have to go with your gut—even though your surroundings don't agree with it. In order to save yourself, in a way.”

When he looks up, Isak just shakes his head. “‘Go with your gut to save yourself?' Wow, Even.”

“What?”

Isak shrugs. “Nothing. Just—how pretentious can you get,” he says, but he smiles anyway, and when Even bumps his shoulder, a short laugh slips out of him.

Short and hoarse. But authentic, at least.

And that’s all Even can ask for.

 

* * *

 

In the evening, the increasing wind signalizes an incoming storm. The gusts of wind from the sea make the rain fall horizontally, and the herding of the horses happens at four in the afternoon due to the harsh conditions. The winds rip and tear at their clothes, and several times, it feels like his anorak will be the death of him because the gusts of wind take hold of the hood and pull at it.

Isak wades through the string of horses to open the gate while Even waits in the back to make sure no curious individual gets up to something.

“Even?” Isak then shouts.

“What?”

“I think a fuse got blown.”

“None of the lights work? Not even the floodlight?”

“Would’ve switched on when the horses came close. The motion sensor would’ve picked it up.”

It's just typical; dark and as cold as it gets without an actual snowfall. “Alright, let’s get them inside first, then we’ll see what we can do.”  

Their headlamps give enough light to get the right horse into the right stall. Hooves clatter against the floor, and they have to physically push some of the horses who think the aisle is a good enough place to spend the night. It all works out fine even if it takes a little extra time, and after a look into the tack room and the riding stables it becomes clear that there is no power anywhere.

Without headlamps, they make everything ready for the night before they—wet, cold and very fed up with everything—walk around the stables and out to the extension. Isak flicks the light switch a few times when they enter, but nothing happens. After taking a look down at Jón and Eídunn’s house further down the hill, it’s easy to conclude that there’s a power outage on the entire farm.

Isak puts his hands in his armpits and looks at Even from under the hood of his raincoat.

“You’ll freeze to death if you sleep up there,” he says, nodding towards the stairs.”Better sleep in the living room tonight?”

Even looks back. “Yes, that’s probably the smartest option. We can light a fire in the stove.”

“True.”

After a quick search, all the while chattering their teeth, they find some stormlights and matches. The insulation keeps the worst of the cold at bay, but it’s still just above seven degrees indoors. Which is not ideal after spending most of the day outdoors in negative seven wind chill and harsh winds.

The stove has a flat surface on the top, which makes it easy to heat some water without the kettle. It’s not enough to get it to boil, but it’s more than good enough to make two cups of tea. Isak isn’t entirely impressed—making faces and wrinkling his nose—but he empties the mug.

And when he’s done, his hands aren’t shaking as much.

“I think I prefer coffee, though,” he says, smirking ever so slightly.

Even puts his feet on the small table. “I agree. But I'll get very neurotic if I drink it this late in the evening.”

“Neurotic?”

“You know; a bit restless and paranoid?”

Even raises an eyebrow, and Isak shakes his head. “It was like that in the beginning, but not anymore."

“A full-fledged addict, then?”

That makes Isak laugh. “Maybe. Can basically drink it and go straight to sleep.”

“Wow. That’s almost worrying.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

The fire from the stove crackles gently, and through the little slit, an orange glow spreads over the rag rugs and the old sofa bed. Pulses and flickers while the fire eats its way into the peat.

“Even?”

Isak's voice cuts through the darkness. It’s so careful that it only makes Even jump a little. There’s a tension in his legs as the cold, prickling feeling that alerts him about incoming anxiety spreads throughout his body, but it doesn’t have the same severity to it as before.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

It rolls in like a wave before it retracts.

“Sure.”

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

In his periphery, Isak moves his head. Perhaps he’s staring into the ceiling, maybe he’s looking at him. It’s impossible to know when staring at the small slits on the stove door.

“To be you.”

A big spark shoots up from the peat burning in the stove.

“A little different. Most things are the same, though.”

“I—know my reaction wasn’t the best. And I've read up on it a bit more now. But I don’t know what it's like to be _you_. I don’t know too much about you, Even. And, I think, that's what really matters.” He snorts, self-deprecation woven into the exhale itself. “Not what—WebMD has to say, you know.”

The disappointment and fear from that night shoots through him like pain in a phantom limb. “You did say _not again_ , back then, Isak. What did you mean by that?”

On his end of the sofa, Isak stops breathing. The absence of it is audible, not the actual stop. And when he opens his mouth, his voice is small. “Mum. I meant Mum.”

“Your Mum—do you want to tell me about her?”

"No. Not really. Though, I think you deserve to know.” Isak breathes out again. “It's complicated. Or, well, not really.”

Isak pulls his knee up towards his chest. Puts his arm over it so he can lean his cheek against his elbow. And although he looks at Even, it's clear that he's not really there. That he’s turned inwards again; he’s sorting through memories and thoughts to determine which ones will survive being exposed to the light.

The familiarity of it is frightening.

“She got worse. So Dad left. And I couldn't leave her, because—no, I just couldn’t. It wasn’t that bad, at first. But then it got worse, and she started to believe that the world was about to end and that God was the only one who could save her. And it felt like she knew that I—that I was gay by then. Because she started to talk too much about _sin_ , and very specific sins.”

Isak exhales; slow and controlled, while pulling at a dry piece of skin next to his thumb with jerky movements.

“I knew she couldn’t really take care of herself, but I started to visit grandma a lot. Stayed there for weeks at a time. Worked at Coop. In the winter, she bought a new horse, and taught me how to break horses in. So, when I finished high school, I asked her if Sveinn needed any help with anything, and—I saved up some money and just went. It was for the best. I needed some time to think. Get away from it all.”

It’s as if all words dissolve like sugar on his tongue; they disappear when Even swallows. And he can’t help but reach out his hand and drag his fingertips over the outer seam of Isak's jeans; feel the rough fabric against the grooves of his fingerprints. The small vibrations create a thin, rasping sound that blends with the crackling from the stove.

“Isak.”

Isak’s leg shakes. “Still doesn’t make it okay, Even. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“No, but— _Isak_.”

Seconds pass.

Slowly, Isak moves his hand until Even can put his thumb over his nail. It’s a small movement, barely noticeable. Isak lets out a trembling breath and seizes Even’s thumb with his hand.

And Even feels like crying.

“I still want to try this. With you. Even though I’ll—I'm going to fuck up. Not if, when. It's a matter of when. Several times, too. But—I want to. If you want to.”

No grand revelation. No heroic declaration. Nothing but a thumb stroking softly over his frayed cuticle and Even has never felt so whole.

“Come here?”

The whisper breaks the silence. He stretches out one arm along the armrest. Lets his fingers walk with small steps over the coarse fabric of the sofa until he’s close enough to touch the hair at Isak's temple.

Isak's eyes are fixated on the floor again. “Why?”

“Because I want to hold you.”

He’s barely uttered the words before Isak’s moving over to him. And he doesn’t think, only acts when he puts his arms around him. Feels him, for the first time, against himself. Isak's arms around his neck, and Even feels him, all of him.

How grounded he is, lanky but strong, and at the same time so light.

Even strokes his hands over his back. Isak breathes against his neck; an uneven, stumbling rhythm. Nails dig into his shoulders, and then, so light he almost misses it, Isak puts his lips against his neck.

And something, some broken, marbled blend of tenderness and something worse spreads through him with every shaking exhale Isak breathes into his ear.

Something that dissolves all boundaries like evaporating water.

“I want to. Even if you fuck up, Isak. It is not—I didn’t make it any easier for you. And I'm sorry about that.”

One of Isak's hands tangles in Even’s hair; his fingers play with it, and slowly, slowly they become braver, brave enough to grab a fistful, pull a little harder and let his nails scratch lightly at his scalp.

“Okay.”

“It—it really is okay, Isak.”

He can almost physically feel how a weight is lifted from Isak with those words. How it drops from his shoulders, and he draws a breath so violent it turns into something closer to a sob on the way through his nose and mouth. Even just holds him a little tighter, and breathes in the scent of him while the rain whips against the window panes.

They sit like that for a long time before Isak pulls back. It's hard to see in the darkness, but Even puts his hand against his cheek, thumb against his mouth, and feels, more than hears, how he shapes the words.

“Can I sleep here with you?”

“On the sofa?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

Without saying more, they let go of each other. Even unfolds the sofa bed while Isak disappears to retrieve their duvets. In the stove, the peat has burnt down to glowering red embers, and Even’s gaze is drawn to it for a while, until the fourth step on the staircase creaks.

Isak smiles slightly when he drops the bedding on the sofa bed. “Brought an extra pillow too.”

Even nods and unfolds the duvets before settling down. The couch is quite stiff, but his concern disappears when Isak pulls off his hoodie, lies down next to him, and settles in close. One arm over his waist and his head wedged under Even’s chin.

As if they’ve never slept in any other way.

He pulls Isak a little closer to him; molds his body against his own, and it’s almost unreal how he’s all of a sudden allowed to feel Isak’s heartbeat against his own ribs. Feel Isak’s body warm, alive and real against his. Not just a mirage he dreamt up to flee from everything; something to focus on to forget all of the things he had to work on.

For a second, it gets difficult to breathe, but he stops himself. Doesn’t allow himself to fall into that pit. Not now, when he has something, someone so valuable half-sleep in his arms.

It would be self-destructiveness on a whole new level to think about all of that now.

“Even?”

He has to strain his ears to hear it. “Yes?”

Isak's fingers are drawing small, cautious patterns on his back. They feel like tattoos through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Why did you come here?”

And what a question. He sighs.

“Many reasons. But—I had to prove to others and myself that I’m able to—and want to—take care of myself and value my life. That I won’t ruin it, or end it, just because that is the only thing I have control over.”

Isak is silent for a while. He just breathes against Even ribs, just above his heart, as if there is a glow there that only needs a little more oxygen to re-ignite.

Even goes on. “It felt right, back then. I also needed to get away from everyone. They care for me, and I know that, but it was as though I couldn’t breathe. As if everything was just pushing at me from all directions, and if I made the slightest noise, it was questioned. And—that’s no way to live.”

He feels more than sees Isak shake his head. “No. It’s not. I know the feeling.”

“You do?”

"It might not be exactly the same,” he says softly, and Even can’t stop himself from combing his fingers through Isak’s hair, his thumb resting on his cheek. And Isak leans into his hand, nothing but trust in the movement. It reminds him of how Fleyta bumps into him to get his attention.

“But. I do recognize it.”

Something tightens in his chest.

Isak changes position so their heads are at the same level. And the light is still dull, and the rain is still whipping against the extension, and nothing has changed. It’s still bright enough to see that Isak is watching him. Solemn, but with his eyes wide open. It's still them, here, on this fucking eighties’ sofa bed, and there's still so much between them that isn’t sorted out.

But at the same time—

Even lowers his hand; drags his thumb over Isak's lower lip. It's a bit chapped, but still soft. Much softer than he thought; much softer than his own. Isak closes his eyes; draws a trembling breath.

Exhales; fills the air between them with carbon dioxide and trembling anticipation.

Even swallows. Comes a little closer, into the radius of Isak's body heat, and puts his forehead against Isak’s.

And the shivering sigh that Isak lets out is the last oxygen molecule needed to blow life into Even once and for all.

 

* * *

 

Even wakes up to a full-blown snow storm.

The roof tiles sound as if they’re about to be torn off, and the porcelain pendant lamp over the kitchen table flickers now and then. The gusts howl around the walls, but the heat seems to have switched back on during the course of the night. It has made fog climb from the frame and spread all over the uninsulated windows.

And Isak is still sleeping next to him.

He’s breathing slowly, with long, drawn out breaths that make his chest expand all the way out every time. The wrinkle between his eyebrows is all smoothed out, and for the first time, it’s clear how much stress and tension he carries around when he’s awake.

Even unfolds the arm he’s put under Isak's neck and gently strokes him across the cheek; it makes it twitch before Isak slowly opens his eyes. Something passes over his face before he swallows and exhales through his nose.

Even smiles at him. Carefully.

“Good morning.”

Isak keeps perfectly still. “Good morning,” he murmurs.

Beneath the duvet, Even can feel Isak’s fingers against the frayed hem of his t-shirt.

“What time is it?”

“A few minutes past half past five.”

“Oh.” Isak's voice is raspy and hoarse from disuse. Even swallows again, his mouth dry all of a sudden. “When did we fall asleep yesterday?”

“Sometime around eight, perhaps. It was early, at least.”

They would probably have been able to stay up all night, but it didn’t feel right. Because it felt as if the world would break if they went further; as if they would have pulled something out of the earth before it was ripe or torn something down before it was finished. Instead, Isak had pulled back, and looked at him with something so open and honest that it had felt like the right thing to suggest they just go to sleep.

Now, Isak nods, and then comes inexorably closer. He suppresses a yawn and then lifts the hand playing with edge of Even’s t-shirt. Cups it over his neck, and his eyes stray over the back of the couch and out the window behind them.

They glaze over, while his fingers start playing with Even’s hair in his neck.

He looks so thoughtful, chewing the inside of his cheek. The wrinkle between his eyebrows is back, and Even can almost hear of the gears in his brain turn in each of his breaths.

But Isak has to be the one to take the first step now.

Even closes his eyes, and tries to get the hairs on his arms to settle. They’re standing straight up like a static electric current in his skin is pulling them upwards. As if the expectation itself can be transformed into positional energy and then fall—

And then, oh so softly, Isak presses his lips against his.

This time, none of them hold back. Without a thought, Even lets his hands sneak under Isak’s t-shirt, to the skin beneath it. Beneath his fingers, Isak’s getting warmer and warmer as he presses his tongue against Even’s. Isak has his arm around his neck, and he is so close now that there is no space between them.

There is no room to hide anything.

Isak is hard against Even’s thigh. And tremors wrack his entire body.

“Hey. Isak. You're shaking. Isak—”

It makes Isak look up at him, with big eyes and tousled hair. The tremors have made their way up to his shoulders, but he just shakes his head.

“It's fine, Even,” he manages to say, and his voice breaks a bit when he sighs against Even’s neck. “It's just nerves or something—I trust you.”

He tries to trust Isak’s words, and he gently runs his hands through Isak's hair. It’s different to Sonja’s. A little coarse, and curly. Not that much shorter, but there’s still a difference.

Objectively speaking, but somehow also not.

“I just want to say that this is the first time with a guy for me, as well. So, don’t expect something spectacular or anything.”

It seems to be just the right thing to say, because Isak exhales again, a hint of laughter in  the expelled air, even though the tremors remain. “Okay.”

“But,” Even has to swallow, or the words will get stuck, “I'd love to go down on you anyway. If you let me.”

It makes Isak laugh properly, and he looks at Even with something soft and warm which otherwise only appears in the thin lines around his mouth. He pushes his fingers through Even’s hair.

“You’re so—”

“Can you hand me my anorak?”

Isak sits up and lets some of the room's cold get in between them before he lies down against with Even’s anorak in hand. Even takes it from him, and fumbles around in the breast pocket; finds what he’s looking for and then lies down on top of Isak.

Feeling all of him pressed up against his own body—hot, nervous and so, so hard.

Isak keeps his eyes closed. Even looks on as his Adam's apple bobs up and down twice.

“This okay?”

Isak nods. "Mm. Could you—? I don’t want to pressure you, but—”

He pushes his hips against Even’s, and they both laugh; it’s quiet and breathless while Even takes out the condoms he found in the his anorak’s pocket and then slips down under the duvet. Underneath, it’s hot and stuffy. The fabric of Isak's sweatpants is soft and worn against his cheek, so he stays like that for a while. Palms Isaks hard-on with slow movements. Breathes in his warmth and scent and hears Isak’s breath break into pieces when quiet, breathless little moans starts to be punched out of him.

Quiet, like someone with the habit of biting his own hand.

When Isak's hips press insistently against his cheek, Even takes a deep breath and pushes down his fear. Digs his fingers into the waistband of both Isak's sweatpants and underwear and pulls.

His own nervousness is growing in his chest, just by dragging his skin against Isak’s, and hearing him let out a loud moan. It's scary, but at the same time it’s not. Not like when he went down on Sonja for the first time: he was immensely excited, but terrified of making any mistakes.

With Isak, it's not like that.

He fumbles with the condom under the duvet. It's hard to see, but eventually he succeeds in finding the edge and tearing it open. He gets his hand over Isak and rolls it on him; hears him holding his breath, and releasing it with an almost whistling sound when Even squeezes him one last time to make sure it won’t slip off. Even feels Isak’s thighs shaking; but in a strange way, it's soothing—giving him the last little push he needs to take Isak in his mouth as far as he dares and is able to.

The whole thing is strange. He can’t help thinking about it; how the latex tastes, how _hot_ Isak is in his mouth, so hot that Even can feel him throb against his lips and that he can’t seem to get down far enough. Sonja had been much more experienced than him when they’d started having sex.

But he’d never considered how much she actually knew.

Not before that first time he laid down between her legs—and now.

A thousand thoughts rush through his head, but they vanish when Isak lets out a moan.

It’s a soft, appreciative sound and Even gathers his courage and goes for it; locks his lips tightly around the head and starts creating some real suction. Just the way he loves it himself.

Isak's hips twitch, and he gasps. Spurred on, Even moves further down the couch and takes a better hold of Isak's thighs; puts his arms around them and pushes them apart with his palms against the soft skin on the inside of his thighs. Isak jolts again, and he pants as if he’s unable to use the available oxygen, and in that moment, Even remembers that there are blood vessels in every nook of the body.

That it’s a closed circuit with the heart as its centerpiece.

A hand comes down, and takes a firm hold of his hair. All of Isak is a trembling mess now, but it's the good kind of tremors. A lifetime from shivering nervousness and anxiety. This is Isak who can’t be still; Isak, whose muscles try to keep him in check, while a paradigm shift takes place within him.

Even exhales through his nose, one hand caressing Isak’s hips, his stomach, his warm skin. Under the palm of his hand, Isak’s stomach is moving with his heaving breaths. Even has been dreaming, daydreaming about this for so long now, and he wants nothing more than to push his nose into the dark blonde curls at the base, breathe Isak deep into his lungs and hold it there for as long as he’s able to.

He breathes in, and tries to take a little more of Isak down his throat. There’s some resistance, but he succeeds in getting down a little bit further, even though he gags slightly.

Spasms once—and then, Isak comes.

The hand in his hair tugs so hard that Even thinks Isak is going to pull it out—with skin and blood still attached—as it pulses through him. Isak shakes and shakes and shakes, and moans one last time. It's a breathless noise that climbs an octave with every spasm and Even feels how he throbs one, two, three times against his lips.

Then all tension in him is released all at once.

His own heartbeat is so loud that Even doesn’t think he’ll be able to even out the oxygen imbalance in his blood for several days. It’s a sensation throughout his body; he is hot, sweaty, and there’s an insistent pulse between the legs. Around him, it's dark, the air is thick beneath the duvet, and Isak's hip bone is digging into his cheek while he stays there for a moment, breathing and listening to Isak regaining control over his own breaths.

It's not until Isak's fingers find their way into his hair again—softer now, not the iron grip from before—that he crawls back up to where the light gets in.

He’s barely gotten out from under the covers before Isak kisses him. It is soft, and hesitant, but with a different sort of trust. Even knows that he must taste of latex, but just the fact that Isak doesn't seem to care makes a warmth spread through him.

Isak pulls back after a while. His face is flushed, there’s a shine in his eyes, and Even doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone with so many simultaneous emotions in their eyes; so open and vulnerable. He smiles when a hand touches his cheek and he closes his eyes when Isak kisses him on the forehead.

“That was—wow.”

Even breathes out, and pulls him close with an arm over his waist. “You’re welcome.”

“Do you want me to—”

Isak's hand skirts downwards, and fiddles with the waistline of Even’s underwear. And Even does his best to not let any primal, obsolete instinct take over, making him do something he will later regret. Instead, he lets Isak find his own pace, but nods.

“If you want to.”

“If I want to?”

Isak lets out a short laugh, before he licks his hand—making Even’s heart jump in his chest —before he lowers it and closes it around Even with a careful grip.

They stay like that, noses touching, even when Isak starts moving his hand. It's not spectacular, not innovative in any way, but it doesn’t matter. Just knowing that it's Isak's hand that's closed around him; that it’s Isak feels every jerk, every drop of precome coming out of him makes it almost impossible to look at him.

But Even forces himself to keep his eyes open. Because Isak looks at him as if he doesn’t know where to go; open mouth and half-closed eyes with cheeks such a vibrant red that Even almost expects to see each individual blood vessels under his skin. Everything in him goes tense, reaching for something, and Isak's eyes are black and his eyebrows are relaxed and he’s nearly glowing where he lies and touches Even with a hand that gets more and more secure in its movement and they gasp in sync and Isak is everything _everything_ —

Even clings to Isak's shoulder when it all tips over within him; when it becomes impossible to hold back if he even wanted to. As the three spasms tear him apart, the air is ripped out of his lungs until he he’s able to breathe himself into place again, heartbeat hammering behind his temples.

Isak looks at him with the same look as before: some odd form of reverence.

Even looks up at the ceiling and lets a short laugh slip out. Isak does too, before he puts his head on Even's shoulder. He looks down at his hand, covered in come, before he wipes it on his t-shirt with a smile.

Black holes perish if they interact too much. They tear each other into pieces, and release a devastating burst of energy. Celestial bodies of similar size keep each other in orbit. Keep each other on the right track.

Constant. Safe.

And Isak's eyes are no longer a singularity, but rather an anchorage.

Isak looks at him with gentle eyes, his finger lightly stroking the soft skin under Even’s eye. “Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?”

Even swallows, his mind blank. “No. Not for a while.”

Isak's fingers continue his way down his cheek, down to his mouth. “Okay. You are.”

Even just wants to open his mouth, and let some cliché answer slip out when Isak continues. “When did you buy those?” he asks, nodding to the condoms thrown on the coffee table.

Anyone else would’ve made it sound like an accusation. Something to be ashamed of. But whatever they just did unlocked something, because Isak's voice is quiet but still steady. As if he just wants to know.

“When we went into town. Last time.”

Isak's eyes grow bigger, and he gets an expression that Even’s never seen before. “Oh. Why?”

And what could he possibly say to that? Even sighs, and fixates his eyes on flickering porcelain pendant lamp. Isak swallows beside him and continues:

“I didn’t want to accuse you of anything—I really didn’t think—”

The words comes out faster than he actually has control over, but something too well known has begun pushing from within his chest and he knows he has to explain this before it becomes unsalvageable. “You are—it felt like there might be something here. And I didn’t really think anything would happen. Just—that it would be such a shame if I didn’t have them. If you wanted the same thing as me.”

He swallows, gathers the last bits of courage and meets Isak’s eyes. It's an odd angle, but he can still see that Isak is laughing; cheeks still red, hair a little dark with sweat. “You’re such an optimist,” he says, playfully, and Even shrugs.

“I’ve got to be. Sometimes, anyway.”

Isak rolls on top of him then. He is warm, and his body feels different from Sonja’s. Not better—except at the end—but certainly the best right now. “I'm happy about that. It's a good trait,” he says against the skin of Even’s cheek, before kissing the corner of his mouth.

He’s just about to open his mouth and try to explain what Isak is—even though the words are so big and so fragile that they barely fit in his mouth—when his mobile starts to ring. An insistent blend of vibrations and marimba notes makes the moment dissolve, like it’s been punctured with a needle.

Even sighs.

Isak laughs. “Time to get up?”

“Time to get up.”

They reluctantly sit up. The power is back, so the heater has switched back on, so it's not nearly as bitingly cold as last night. Isak disappears into his room to change, and returns just when Even fishes the blister pack with medications from behind the coffee tin.

Isak goes straight up to him.

“Is that lithium?”

It's going to be hard to get used to him knowing, and that’s he’s okay with it. Even forces himself to push two tablets into his hand and nods.

“What do they taste like?”

Of all the things he could ask. Even laughs at that; in the periphery of his eye, Isak does the same. “I don’t know? A little metallic. You can get a sort of metal taste in your mouth?” he says, doesn’t exactly know how to explain it.

It's a poison, but at the same time it’s something he really needs.

“Okay.”

Isak takes down the coffee tin and begins to cook coffee on the stove while Even puts  bread and butter on the kitchen counter. Makes sandwiches for now, and then for the coffee break later.

They eat standing up, leaning against the kitchen counter and each other; little fingers hooked around each other.

 

* * *

 

The storm lessens, and slowly, the light comes back. At eight o'clock the winds are gentler. Not entirely lull, but it's enough for them to brave the outdoors, as well as herd the horses out to the paddocks. Both of them are heading back up the hill, walking so close that their hands brush every other step, when they suddenly hear Jon's voice through the white fog.

“Have you herded the horses already?”

Even raises a hand and waves. “We have!”

When they step out on the courtyard, Jón and Eídunn are easier to spot; they’re leaning against the stable wall. Jón has his arm around Eídunn’s shoulders, and she has one hand in the pocket of his parka.

“Is there anything that you need to do right now?"

Isak looks at Eídunn. “Not really. Just the usual. Why?”

“Someone needs to ride and have a look at the fence again.”

Jón nods in and takes a sip from the lid of his coffee thermos before he hands it to Eídunn. “Yes, you should take those two mares you like so much, let them run off some energy. Just take a quick look and patch it up a bit more if needed. What you did should’ve been enough, but with these storms lately, you can’t be too careful.”

Even sends Isak a look, and then they go into the stable. The fluorescent lights buzz as usual, and Ella strokes herself against both their shins as soon as they step inside the door. It closes behind them with a click.

Isak looks at him before he tilt his head a little, smiling.

And Even kisses him; swift and light. So natural.

Since both Ýr and Fleyta have spent the night indoors, they’re warm and clean. They greet them with gentle headbutts as they enter their shared stall. Ýr seems to have missed Isak, because she sticks her muzzle everywhere while he is getting rid of the dust from her black coat with a dandy brush. Isak gently pushes her head away every time, until he gives in and lets her stay where she obviously wants to be.

Even rests his chin on Fleyta's flat withers. And when Isak notices him watching, he also smiles.

Not before long, they mount the horses, and with a goodbye and a warning not to get lost in the mist, they take off along the gravel road.

Even’s ridden this exact road so many times now that he’s seen all the different forms it can take on. In rain, in radiant sunlight, when the winds have torn through the grass, which is now hidden under the snow. The road is white, and once in a while, a gust of wind makes a spray of snow shoot up from where it’s gathered in the ditch.

The clop of horses' hooves is muffled against the road; when Isak makes Ýr take off in flying pace, Even lets Fleyta gallop to keep up at a comfortable pace. The wind picks up a little more, and it makes the mist clear the farther away from the farm they get. Isak's red scarf loosens from where he has tied it around his neck, and  flutters behind him in the wind.

Around them, it is quiet, apart from horses’ hooves and the sea.

They slow down as they see the turn leading to Sveinn’s farm and the place where the path along the fence goes. They let the horses walk behind one another until they arrive at the temporary patches in the fence. Fleyta throws back her head a little restlessly, and lets out a pleased snort when Even slackens the reins and dismounts. She scratches her head on her leg while Even nudges the patched-up fence with his foot.

Isak combs his fingers through Ýrs mane, before he leans forward over her neck. “I’ll miss this,” he says, watching Even before he looks out over their and Sveinn's paddocks, the black shore and the sea. And this mist, it makes it hard to see, but during the rides it has begun to lighten ever so slightly.

Allows one to see that there is in fact a boundary between air and water; the horizon is sharp and has no visible fence.

“I know.” Even gives him a weak smile. “But we have another month.”

Isak exhales a smile that almost disappears in its own cloud. “We do.”

It starts to snow again. The clouds are too thick for the sun to break through, but the whole world is still filled with light; white and soft, like cotton.

Even mounts again, and they turn the horses around. Walk slowly back along the fence and up to the road again; Isak makes Ýr slow down a bit to fall behind.

“By the way,” he says suddenly, and Even turns around in the saddle. Looks at how Isak chews on the inside of his cheek before he blurts out: “Where do you live? In Oslo, I mean.”

Even makes Fleyta do a halt and he blinks away a few snowflakes that’ve gotten stuck in his eyelashes; they blur the world for a moment before he can see clearly again. “Løkka, just about. In an apartment, with Mum and Dad.”

Isak nods. “Okay.”

“Why’re you asking?”

“I was just thinking—” Isak shrugs, and the shadow of a smile plays in the corner of his mouth. “I want to know which tram line is the best. Once we’re home.”

He smiles, and then Ýr does a perfect leg-yield. The black mare takes a pretty step; loose but connected, fully in tune with Isak, before she takes a step forward so that they’re standing side by side. And Even can’t help his smile. Like pressure, it builds up from within, and siphones out no matter how he tries to hold it back.

“Line twelve. It has a stop next to it.”

“That’s nice. That it does, I mean.” Isak smiles too. “Then I can take that one, and come visit you. If you’d like."

Even lets one of the reins drop. Ýr is standing close enough that he can easily cup his hand around Isak's neck and draw him a little closer. “I’d like that a lot,” he says.

“I’ll do that, then.”

Isak looks at him for a moment. In his eyes, there’s everything that’s still ahead of them—the unresolved, the unknown, the limitless—and something jumps in his midriff, makes him feel dizzy. It feels like freefall. But then Isak leans forward and kisses him, warm and soft, and the feeling disappears, like his parachute has finally unfolded.

And he’s no longer afraid to fall.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! ♡

**Author's Note:**

>  _floating_ : the process of filing down the too sharp points of a horse's teeth to prevent them from cutting up the horse's cheeks  
>  _corral_ : quite small, fenced off area in the shape of an octagon. in this fic, only used for training purposes  
>  _tölt_ : a quick (but comfortable) distance-winning, four-beat, ambling gait unique to Icelandic horses. often more natural to the horse than trot, but there are exceptions.  
>  _tack room_ : room in the stable where saddles, bridles etc. are kept  
>  _jodhpurs_ : usually referencing a low cut riding boot. here: the special kind of a bit looser, more casual (and really comfortable) breeches. they have a wider ankle, a stirrup that goes under the foot and are usually worn with paddock or jodphur boots.  
>  _Rettír_ : annual event where horse and sheep farmers in Iceland herd back their animals from the mountains where they've been grazing for the summer  
>  _flying pace_ : in Icelandic: _flugskeið_. a lateral, two-beat gait that is very fast. highly valued; not all Icelandic horses can perform the flying pace.  
>  _nose snus_ : in Iceland, the only legal snus is snus that you sniff.


End file.
